Also Sprach Zarathustra ツァラトゥストラはかく語りき
by Swagnarok
Summary: Half a century ago, the Black Organization learned of a boy who displayed supernatural abilities. They locked him away and attempted to exploit his powers. Transcending the empty boundaries of time and space he reached out to a kindred spirit and made a friend. A short, canon spin-off series, written by Gosho Aoyama, aired in 2021. (12 episodes plus Nobutaro's Prophecy)
1. Chapter 1

**An ufotable production**

**Nine Years Before Present**

A historic building in the local area, having been founded in 1927 by its first presbyter Reverend Robert Norquist, it was a normal Sunday morning at First Broadway Episcopal Church, located in Broadway, Kansas, USA, a commuter town for the nearby and much larger city of Wichita.

The two of them sat in the back, eager not to draw attention to themselves. His advanced age, combined with his Asian features, would have made him stick out like a sore thumb.

As for her, well, the whole world knew her face. And so she wore a broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses. Perhaps not the most appropriate church attire, but she much rathered that somebody not upload footage of her and her *ahem* friend here together. She still wasn't 100℅ confident in his ability to accomplish everything that he said he was going to do, and in the event that he got caught by the Organization she didn't want them knowing about her association with him this past year.

Nonetheless, when he asked her to come with him to this place, more or less in the middle of nowhere, as his "last request" she knew she couldn't refuse him this. So here they were. For whatever reason.

Long ago she convinced an American man to pose as her husband so as to fool the press, ever gluttonous for the juiciest and most private details of Sharon Vineyard's life. Though obviously their relationship was founded upon a lie, they got to know each other quite well, and ultimately he invited her to attend a Sunday morning church service with her. That was some years ago, of course, but she remembered the experience fondly.

Thus, she came here today expecting the service to have a certain appearance. What she didn't realize, however, was the extreme diversity between styles of worship in different Christian denominations. A Baptist service and an Episcopalian service were nothing alike, as she was now learning.

A middle-aged woman with short hair in the colorful priestly robes walked down the aisle holding up a crucifix, followed by a procession of robed men. Then the congregation sang English hymns to the sound of organ music. Then she offered up flowery religious platitudes, and then they sang once more. And so it went, until the service ended.

And soon, the pews were nearly empty. But Vermouth and Nobutaro remained seated.

She looked around. She knew that soon enough somebody would come and ask them to leave. The embarrassment of being put into that kind of situation was something she figured they could avoid by just going now.

But at the same time, they'd both come from quite a long way. To throw the Organization off the trail they'd landed in San Francisco and then took a bus all the way here. But why? What was this random church building in a foreign country to the so-called Oracle of Milcom? Clearly this was something of a pilgrimage to him, like the trip to Mecca for observant Muslims, or the trip to Jerusalem for medieval Christian travelers.

Whatever the deal was, it had him choking up. She'd never seen him like this.

The Reverend Jeanine Sanders walked up to them.

"_Is there something I can help you with?_" she asked, curious. "_Because we're about to lock up._"

It was Vermouth's quick thinking that saved the day:

"_Yes, my father-in-law attended services here as a child,_" she lied, "_and its been a long time since he's been back here._"

The Reverend nodded. "_Take as much time as you need. I'll lock up when you're done._"

She walked away.

"Alright," Vermouth said to him (in Japanese, as is the majority of the dialogue in this). "Spill it. What the h*'ll happened here to get you so worked up like this?"

" ...Watch your language."

"Huuh?"

"Mind your language. We're in a house of worship. Act like it."

"That doesn't answer my question," she said. "What happened here?"

"That..."

He sighed. "That is a long story."

"Something tells me we have all the time we need."

He shook his head. "Not enough. But as for the short version, alright. In this building...no, in this town...well..."

He looked at her. "This is the town where I grew up."

* * *

**Also Sprach Zarathustra: I: King of Hearts**

* * *

**Wednesday, May 25, 1966**

...Crickets.

Most unusual that they could be so numerous as to make such a racket.

Honestly, they both just wanted to go. It was getting late and they knew that the longer they stayed the later it'd be when they got home. Well, not literally home. But to bed. Bonnie told her mom and dad she'd be staying at a friend's house for the night and that she'd come home first thing tomorrow morning. Conveniently she didn't say what friend, and she hoped they didn't probe her about it. Fortunately it appeared as she was leaving that they bought the story without a second thought.

Bonnie did not have a watch, but she figured it was probably nine-something by now.

Dark enough that that person could be on the prowl without being easily spotted but just early enough that his target (though they didn't know for sure whether it was a man or woman) would probably not be asleep. This ideal window of action had surely passed by now. All they could hope for would be to discover the crime scene after the fact and look for any clue that that person might've left behind.

Wichita was a big town, of course. Lots of neighborhoods for that person to choose from. In this neighborhood there were two homes that fit the bill, per the notes they'd taken. On the street adjacent there were three. All in all they were wandering the area aimlessly, hoping to stumble upon something.

Assuming that the killer employed the same MO here as with his two previous victims, they might be able to hear it. A 1957 Chevrolet, a typical car for that day and age, had a fuel efficiency of about 15 miles per gallon, and could hold about 16 gallons of fuel. Such a car whose fuel tank was 1/4 filled at the time could manage about 60 miles; assuming that an idling car expended as much gasoline as a car going about 5 MPH or less, they figured there'd be an at least 12 hour period of audibility beginning at the minute of the murder. Cars in this era were, of course, significantly louder than they would be, say, a half century later, something which in this case was to their advantage.

They had initially assumed that the killer would be reluctant to strike the same neighborhood twice, and that while this option was still available he would strike in parts of town that'd yet been hit. This assumption proved false; so far their guy had hit the same general area twice. Maybe he lived in the area? In any case, they were assuming that he'd strike the same area a third time, which gave them significant leeway to narrow down their search.

It was a warm night, which was good because Bonnie's person was not well suited at all to handle the cold for long stretches. She was about average weight for a teenage girl her age and she was wearing a knee-length dress with no jacket, scarf, or mitts, with shaved arms and legs. So far this was their eighteenth out of thirty six neighborhoods that they surveyed; they hadn't read in the papers of a third murder, so they were assuming the third would come soon. It had been six days since the last murder, which was roughly the span of time between the first and the second. So there was a good chance it'd be either tonight or tomorrow night.

So all in all their odds weren't too shabby. They were about halfway done, assuming that they wouldn't catch anything. Otherwise it could come any-

*mmmmmmmrrrrrph*

They stopped, turned around, and took a few steps towards the house they'd just passed up. Sure enough they could make out a faint rumble.

It was a small house with a small garage door, the garage inside probably being big enough for a single car. Perfect for somebody who lived alone. They had no flashlight on them so they walked up to the mailbox, leaned in close, and squinted.

"Is that a 4?" Bonnie mumbled.

_...No, looks more like a 7_, his voice said inside her head.

"Darn, I wish we hadn't forgotten the flashlight," she said.

_In any case, there's no harm in checking it out. Seems like this could be one of the houses, just looking at it_.

In agreement on that point, Bonnie walked up to the front door, breathed in deeply, and:

*knock knock knock knock*

Ow, she thought, her knuckles reeling from how hard he did that in his over-enthusiasm.

_Sorry_.

They waited.

And waited.

"Let's try the door."

(Author's Note: While technically Bonnie is speaking English, for the big screen all of this dialogue, as well as the large majority of that in this series, would be dubbed in Japanese.)

She put her hand to the copper door knob, turned, and pushed. To neither of their surprise, it swung open.

They stepped inside.

"Hello?" Bonnie called out loudly, keen to make sure this wasn't a misunderstanding.

They waited a couple more seconds. Then they closed the door behind them.

They were now intruding in a stranger's house. If that person called the police they'd have a hard time explaining that to her dad. More worrying, however, was the possibility that the killer was still inside.

They drew their knife and cautiously turned a corner. There was nobody there, but now they could hear it quite loudly.

There was a regular side door leading into the garage. It did not have a transparent face so they couldn't look inside. But they both knew now that they were in the right place, and that they were too late.

_Bonnie, let's switch. Now_.

"What are you going to do?"

_You know_.

"What's the point? You could die, and for what? Enough time has to have passed that they're already dead."

_We have to check out the crime scene. That's basic. If nothing else I can turn the car off and confirm the victim's death_.

"Can you hold your breath that long?"

_We'll just have to see. Thirty seconds. That's all I should need. This body's up to that, right_?

"Y-Yeah, I can manage that. But it's a mind thing, isn't it? The fact that I can do it doesn't mean you can."

_Again, we'll just have to see_.

"What the heck then? Why can't I do it?"

_Because I'm the one who dragged you out here. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I got you killed_.

"But-

_No time to argue about this. I've risked my life in this body before, right? If I should die, well, you should already know what to do. Cooperate with them fully, admit the situation from the onset. They won't be able to kill you since my body is too valuable to them. Do whatever it takes to survive, and to eventually secure your freedom if possible_.

Bonnie shook your head. "No way, you're just being a showoff. I know what to do. Just open the door, turn the ignition and check their pulse. Then run back. I can do that, no prob-

_Grr, I wasn't asking_!

*vreeng*

Taking a few steps back upon the initial disorientation, Nobutaro then looked straight at the door. He walked up to the door, his/her heart shaking.

The environment up ahead was totally contrary to the survival of living organisms. It was an artificial pocket of death within a planet teeming with life. One slip-up and he was royally screwed. Bonnie's parents would believe their daughter to be dead, as there'd be no evidence to the contrary. If Bonnie managed to make contact with them via his body's powers then that would raise far too many unwanted questions, though he was sure she'd try it anyway.

My only option, then, he thought, is to not die. Shouldn't be too hard. Pinch my nose and hold my breath. I should be fine.

He took a deep breath, tightened his/her chest, swung the door open, and rushed inside. After a moment's hesitation he closed the door behind him, not wanting the gas to seep into the main house.

He ran to the car door and opened it. A middle-aged woman was lying non-responsive in the driver's seat, probably dead. Nobutaro turned the key in the ignition. Within seconds the car powered down.

He felt like there was a weight pressing down on him/her. He quickly thought about running back into the house and then coming back after he caught his breath but he just as quickly decided against him.

He pressed his finger to the woman's neck.

One...two...three...

Nothing.

Done, he ran back inside the house and slammed the door behind him. He dashed several feet ahead, fell to his knees, and then:

"HHHHHAAAAAAAAHHHHHH..."

"HHHHHHAAAAAAHHHHH..."

One deep breath after another.

They did it.

_Can I have my body back now_?

"...Yeah," he said, still panting.

*vreeng*

After waiting a second to regain her bearings she stood up.

"Was she dead?"

_Yeah. I didn't have time to check for a driver's license though_.

"It should be enough that we call the police. They can identify her for us."

_Alright then. Let's see if our guy left behind anything_.

They walked into the kitchen and looked into the sink.

Sure enough, there was an emptied glass pitcher with traces of lemonade still in it.

They stepped into the living room and looked at the carpet. Sure enough, there was a large immaculately clean spot whereas there was dirt and whatnot elsewhere on it.

"...Alright, I trust we both know exactly what happened here?" Bonnie asked.

_Yeah. Looks like they didn't think this through so far as to know to cover their tracks_.

"Or maybe they were too afraid to remain in the house any longer than they had to after the deed was done?"

_Yeah, or that. I'm sure they left fingerprint evidence all over the place_.

"But that wouldn't matter if this person was never arrested, right?"

_I guess not. Or so long as they never joined the armed forces. I've heard t__hey fingerprint you there. It's been nearly two weeks since their first murder, so I think we can safely assume that neither of these things is the case_.

They searched around some more and then left silently out the back.

* * *

*knock knock*

Startled, Yuri sat up.

He looked up at the grandfather clock on the wall and read the time. He knew that there was only one person who could be at his door at this hour.

He had a half-finished glass of booze sitting at his desk. He knew it was probably room temperature by this time, so he didn't bother finishing.

Instead he got up, walked to the adjacent room, and unlocked and opened the door.

She stepped inside. He closed the door behind her.

"Well?" he asked.

"...Yeah, we found one tonight."

"Did you catch him?"

Bonnie shook her head.

She crashed on the couch a few feet from his desk, showing no regard for posture or ladylikeness.

"...Oh, I'm not talking to Bonnie, am I," he said.

"Nope," Nobutaro said with Bonnie's mouth.

"Is she there?"

"Yeah. This body is really tired, so I volunteered to walk us back here. But my body was also pretty tired, so it looks like she fell asleep."

(Author's note: Though this is dubbed in Japanese, technically Nobutaro is speaking in English. He's fairly fluent in the language by this time though he speaks with an accent.)

"Can you wake her up?"

"I mean, sure, but do I really want to? My body's getting a good night's rest about now."

"It shouldn't be night in Japan right now."

"Meh. When Bonnie's up I'm usually up, so my regular routine involves sleeping in the middle of the day. Well, it's not very well-illuminated in that dungeon so I don't really care."

"Doesn't sound like your body gets nearly enough exercise."

"It doesn't...So, to summarize, our guy targets single women, middle aged. The kind of people who'd be lonely and eager for visitors. He comes in, late enough to minimize his chances of being seen by somebody and..."

He yawned.

Yuri snapped his finger. "Hey, hey, don't doze off yet. What's he do?"

"He comes in posing as a vacuum cleaner salesman," Nobutaro said. "Gives them a little demonstration. He's probably a charming, talkative fellow, and he gets them to offer him something to drink, in the process them fixing themselves something as well. When they're not looking his puts something in their drink, knocks them right out. Then he drags them to their car garage, puts them in their car, puts the seatbelt on, cranks down the windows, and starts the ignition. Then he leaves and lets the fumes from the exhaust do the rest. From what I've heard it seems he's used the same MO for his last two victims as well. The press never reported certain specific details that the three cases have in common, so I'm pretty sure the same guy's behind them all."

"Stiggie?"

Nobutaro shook his/her head weakly. "No, it's not Stiggie. Different method. And I...I wish people would stop calling him that..."

He yawned again.

"Do you have an address?" Yuri asked.

"No," Nobutaro said, "but I know the house is on Jersey Street..."

And then a few seconds later the person of Bonnie Cartwright drifted off to sleep.

Instead of probing further, Yuri slowly got up, got the top sheet from his bedroom, and covered him/her with it.

He knew that before going to bed there was one last thing he needed to handle: the matter of tipping off the police. And so, he immediately proceeded to write a letter to the police, sealed it, got into his car, drove six miles, and then dropped off the letter in a postbox that would most likely be delivered to the police the following morning.

* * *

**The Next Day, Thursday**

The car stopped a few yards from her driveway.

"Um, Tarokun wants to know whether you're about to call the police?" she asked.

Yuri nodded. "He doesn't have to worry about that. I've already tipped them off."

"Well, thank you," she said, getting out of the car and closing the door behind her.

Yuri took off and she headed towards the front porch.

"...Are we going to talk about what happened yesterday?" she asked, finally alone.

_What's there to talk about? I did it to keep you safe. You should be thanking me_.

More than a little frustrated, she swung the door open and dropped the knapsack. The time was 10:54 AM.

"I'm home!"

Her mother, Stacey Cartwright, came into view. "Good. Later you can help me with supper."

Bonnie went and put her stuff in her room, washed her hands in the bathroom sink, and then came back.

"By the way, was that Mr. Yuri out there?" her mother called out.

"No," Bonnie lied. "So what are we having?"

"Spaghetti and meatballs," her mother said. "With a side of homemade blueberry jam on Wonder Bread."

"Yummy. Did Mrs. Miller give us jam again?"

"Yup. She came by yesterday afternoon. And to top it off, your Aunt Kathy's coming over tonight."

"Oh? Is dad going to be home for dinner?"

Her mother sighed. "I told him before he left this morning, but...You know how your father is. We'll just have to wait and see."

Bonnie nodded awkwardly, knowing exactly what she meant by that.

* * *

After a mundane and markedly unaccomplished day at work, Chad Cartwright once again accompanied his two best police buddies to the Round Robin Billiards Hall, which had been their favorite hangout spot for about a decade now.

It was an ideal spot: the tables were vacuum-cleaned every night and evidently replaced or treated when the lawn-like surface no longer looked pristine green. The wood had a lacquered finish, the balls were well-polished and clean as a whistle, and the pockets led the balls rolling down to collection points on the low side of the table so that balls could be hit into the same pocket and over again. Any given party was given a large booth to play in, separated from elsewhere on the floor by high wooden dividers/walls where a reasonable degree of privacy could be assured, though of course there was a clear pathway in and out of a booth. There were no windows in the booths, though there was a bright light above in every booth so as to make sure the players could see.

There was, alternately, the option of playing a game on a pool table in the main room, which had ceiling fans above, the radio playing on a central loudspeaker system, a large bar (that any player could go buy a drink from, of course), and a stage where every now and then various performers (mainly of the female variety) did their thing. One could smoke, if they brought their own pack or if they were willing to part with $1.50, and the ventilation system was exceptionally modern so suffocation was not so much a concern as lung cancer.

Kevin made his move. The cue ball shot across the pool table and a couple of balls scattered, though none dropped into a pocket. It was Chad's turn.

"So anyways, you know, we could still come here and play a round or two after work every now and then," he said.

Leaning against his cue, Gay stared Chad down a bit fiercely. "Why?"

Chad took a swig of his drink and set it down again on the wooden divider. Then he turned around and faced Gay. "Why? You know d*mn well why! What am I doing here, huh? No, correct that: what are we doing here? Does the little town of Broadway even need us? What ever happens in a town like this? I'll tell you what: absolutely nothing. Why, I'll betcha a single man could do the job all three of us are doing."

"So...what? You're just going to quit?" Kevin asked. "Hope for the best until you get that opening? You've got a family, for Pete's sake!"

Chad shrugged. "I never said I was going to be in between jobs. I already put in an application about a week ago."

"A week?" Gay repeated incredulously. "And we're just now hearing about this?"

Chad crouched over the table, angling his cue just right to get that green striped 14 ball into the side pocket. "I didn't know how to break the news to you guys. So I figured the best way would be over a friendly game of pool."

"Yeah, one h*ll of a friendly game alright," Gay said sarcastically.

"C-Come on!" Kevin said. "If you do this, you'll have to take a pay cut I'm sure."

"Yeah, probably," Chad said nonchalantly. "But you know what? I think I can live with that."

"Did you at least talk this over with Stacey?" Gay asked.

"Nope," Chad said, breathing in deeply, making his shot at last, landing one in. "I'll get it over with sometime tonight. Or tomorrow night. But surely you know why I have to do this."

"We don't!" Gay said. "What's this to you, huh? None of those people have killed anybody over here. Or anybody who you or I know. It's-it's not like your family's in danger or anything."

Chad shook his head. "You can't say something like that for sure. I mean, take for example Mr. Mill...Kevin, your dad commutes to Wichita every day, right? It could be him. Any day now he could be the next to die."

Kevin was silent.

"Sorry if that seemed harsh. But, I know I have the skill set to be of use to any one of those ongoing investigations. And I sure as h*ll can't help with that from here, where it seems like I just get paid to...get cats out of trees and discipline snot-nosed brats throwing rocks. I...I just gotta do this, you know? It's been on my mind for a good while now...ever since this all started back in '57, actually. The fact that I'm just now acting on this, after all this time, that's the real tragedy."

Gay finished up his drink. "Well, it was an honor serving with you for all these years."

He extended his hand.

"W-Whoa there, I didn't say I was leaving tomorrow," Chad said with an awkward chuckle. "I haven't heard back from them yet. I figure when I do it'll be at least a couple of days before I start. I think I've still got a fair bit of time l-

He paused.

"What time is it?"

"Umm, I can ask the guy up front if you want," Kevin said. "Why?"

"I'm supposed to be home for dinner. Katherine's coming over...Stacey's gonna be so mad."

He opened his wallet and put some money on the table.

"This should cover it, I think," he said. "If not then I'll pay you back later. Goodbye!"

And with that he stepped into the central room and headed towards the exit.

"Hey, tell that gorgeous woman of yours I'd eat her cooking any day!" Gay called out jokingly. "Don't matter to me what it taste like!"

"Yeah yeah, at least try to think of some fresh material next time," Chad called back without stopping or turning his head. "Okay bye."

* * *

*ding dong*

A couple seconds later Stacey opened the door and greeted her sister.

"Hi!"

They hugged.

"Oof, is that dinner?" Aunt Kathy asked, fanning the air near her face for dramatic effect.

"Yeah, sorry," Stacey said apologetically. "I burned the meatballs. You can smell it from here?"

"...Yeah."

They both chuckled.

"It's alright though," Kathy said. "A free meal that I don't have to work for is always something I look forward to."

She came in.

Bonnie, donning oven mitts, took the pan of spaghetti out of the heat and set it on the kitchen table.

"Bonnie!" Aunt Kathy exclaimed as they hugged. "My goodness, how long's it been? Look at you, all grown up and pretty! I'll bet you have guys courting you left and right!"

Indeed, Bonnie upon coming home earlier had taken a bath, changed into a blue Sunday dress, and spent about twenty minutes ironing her hair as to get it straight and bobbed (she also had some makeup applied to her face).

Chad (who as it turned out was not late for dinner that night) stepped in from the living room, holding a now crumpled up newspaper.

"Hiya Kathy," he said, shaking her hand.

Stacey looked around. "Where's Gordy?"

"I'll go get him," Bonnie said.

She ran upstairs and peered into the room of Gordon "Gordy" Cartwright, age 13, who was lying on his bed staring up at the ceiling, a comic book lying about a foot from his head.

He sat up and looked at her. "Time to eat?"

She nodded. "Aunt Kathy's here. Come down and say hello."

"I'll be right down," he said.

* * *

They all held hands and bowed their heads. Chad cleared his throat, and then said, in his manliest voice:

"O Heavenly Father, thank you for this food that we partake in, that nourishes our bodies, and for this drink, that quenches our thirst. In thy name we pray, amen."

"Amen," they all repeated. And with that they could eat.

About ten seconds into her meal Aunty Kathy realized Gordy was staring at her.

"Is it my highlights?" she asked, ruffling her hair as a gesture.

He nodded, looking away. "You put paint in your hair?"

She laughed. "No, no, I used a stuff called madder. It's a plant that people once used to dye clothes, before the invention of all this synthetic crap. My friend Lucy showed me how to apply it. It's all natural. Won't slowly poison me like whatever else people are using these days."

She grinned. "Why? You want me to show you how to do it?"

"Okay," he said eagerly.

"Now hold on," Chad said. "Kathy, you know he's a boy. In fact, as of today he's now a member of the local YMCA."

"How was that, by the way?" Stacey asked.

Gordy hesitated. And then:

"I don't like it."

Chad sat straight up. "Excuse me? Son, you know it took me a lot of work getting you accepted to there. This isn't no run-of-the-mill youth hostel, alright? This is a club and bathhouse. The kind of place upper class parents send their kids. Now what isn't there to like?"

Gordy shrugged, looking down at his plate. "I was uncomfortable the whole time."

"Uncomfortable?" Aunt Kathy asked. "How?"

Gordy shrugged again, again not looking up. "I dunno. I just was. Everybody was weird."

Chad was taken back with a certain idea. "Son, you aren't saying there were coloreds in a place that nice?"

Gordy shook his head. "No. They were just weird. I don't...I don't know how to explain it. They made me feel really uncomfortable. They...slapped my butt."

"Say WHAT?" Stacey said, bursting out laughing (as was Chad).

"They slapped your butt?" Chad repeated, trying to keep a straight face. "Son, the YMCA is all about athletics. If you can't handle it getting a little rough at times, then..."

"N-Never mind," Gordy said. "You don't understand."

"Well what is there to understand?" Chad retorted. "I know you've never been into athletics, but maybe now's about time for you to man up a little. You know, you're a teenager now. When school starts back up you ought to try out for the track team or something. I don't know."

"Hey, come on," Aunt Kathy said. "Maybe Gordy's not into sports. What's the big deal? Why can't you just let the kid be?"

"I'll tell you why," Chad said sternly. "When I was a boy I never had the opportunity to do what he's doing now. He should count his lucky stars, is all I have to say on the matter. Why, in my day all there was to do was to play rough and tumble, trundle wooden hoops, catch frogs down by the creek..."

He sighed. "Those were the days. Nowadays, I hardly see him without his nose up a comic book. Kids these days, they...read about adventures instead of having adventures. And it just ain't right, I tell you. A boy should learn to be strong. Why...what happens if one day Uncle Sam calls you up to go fight the reds in a jungle somewhere? Would you be tough enough to survive? The way I did? Huh?"

"Chad, I think that's enough," Stacey said.

After a second's deliberation Chad backed down. "Look, all I'm saying is...you know."

"Yes, we know," Aunt Kathy said with a slight tone of hostility in her voice.

There was a pause.

Kathy turned to Bonnie, eager to change the subject. "You've been awfully quiet this whole time."

"Oh, have I," she said glumly.

"How about it?"

"Huh?"

"The highlights," Kathy said. "You talked to me on the phone just last year saying you wanted to dye your hair...what color did you say it was again? Was it blonde!"

Bonnie (who had brown hair) shook her head. "I don't want to look like that brat Jane Osteen."

"Oh? Is Jane that girl at your school who your mother's been telling me about?"

Bonnie just nodded.

But then, realizing this opportunity, she looked her aunt in the eye and said:

"Red hair. I've always wanted red hair."

"Like about the color of these highlights?"

"Yeah, but my whole hair. Not just part."

Kathy chuckled. "Alright, I think I can arrange that. I don't have any with me right now, but tell ya what, when I get back to New York I'll be sure to mail you some madder, and I'll also send instructions on how to use it. How's that sound?"

"That sounds good," Bonnie said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Then Aunt Kathy turned to Stacey. "Listen, um, I have a small favor to ask you."

Stacey breathed in deeply.

"No, no, I'm not sticking my hand out and asking for charity," Kathy said. "I just need you to take a look at something for me. After we eat?"

"...What is it? You can tell me right now."

Sighing, Kathy took a yellow Manila Folder out of her purse and handed it across the table.

"The pages are stapled, so...just read it," she said.

Stacey took a look at the front page. "This again?"

"Again? It's been five years. I wised up from last time's mistakes, got some good people to mentor me, and I really think this will knock the socks off the viewers in the audience."

"So...what?" Stacey asked, exasperated. "You came here to ask me for $1000 start-up money? For another pet project of yours?"

"Pet Project?" Kathy repeated with indignation. "I put my heart and soul into this. It took me six months to write this script. I had my friend Todd look over it and he says it's good. And when he says something's good, it's good. I have a confident feeling about my work here. This one...this one won't fail."

"That's what you said last time," Stacey said. "What is this, you think Chad makes, like, a five figure salary in a year? We don't have the money for this."

"If you're really this desperate for money why don't you get a proper job already?" Chad suggested.

Kathy looked at him, chafed. "A proper job? What is it you think I do?"

He shrugged. "You're like, you think you're a movie star or something. But you can barely pay rent. Now I know living in Manhattan ain't cheap, but I really think you could do better. Or better yet, why not just get married?"

"...Excuse me?"

"Get married. Find yourself a man. Then you won't have to worry about money."

"And what, you think I'd just be happy as...a plain old housewife? Confined to the home most the day?"

He sighed. "Katherine, you're a 36 year old woman. Why don't you just grow up already and stop begging us for money? We all...we all reach a point in our lives where we have to accept that we oughta just settle down and commit to certain responsibilities. I've accepted that. Your sister's accepted that. The only person who hasn't accepted that is you. You're the problem here. And...look, I know that sounds harsh, but I'm just telling it as it is. Grow up already. We're not giving you a dime. And that's that."

Gordy pushed his plate forward. "I'm done. Can I go to my room?"

Stacey nodded.

Bonnie stood up. "Me too, if you don't mind."

"Alright," Chad said. "I think we and your aunt will still be here talking for a little while, so...why don't you two get ready for bed."

* * *

The toilet flushed. She rinsed with a bar of soap.

Then she looked straight at her own reflection in the mirror.

She could feel the tension, the anger seeping into her own consciousness from his. She was sure that on the other end he was pacing his cell like a caged tiger, filled with bottled up aggression. She could tell that at times he tried to mask it, but it was just too much. There was no way she couldn't feel it.

She stood up straight and relaxed her shoulders. "Alright, what's the matter? You can tell me. You know that."

_That hypocrite! 'Pillar of the family' indeed. 'Voice of reason' indeed. T-That no-good two-timing scoundrel! Does he care who he leaves behind?! The lives he destroys_?

"You're talking about dad? Why?"

Then she realized.

"You don't mean that photo."

_Oh yeah. I do. He left that woman halfway across the world. Alone! Betrayed! And who's to say she's the only one_?

"You're jumping to conclusions. We don't know who that woman was to him."

_I know I do. I...pah. Fine. I get it. You wanna give your old man the benefit of the doubt. But he doesn't deserve it. He's a liar! Everything he says_...

She sighed. "Tarokun, you don't have to be mad for me. It's my choice, and I choose not to hold it against him, whatever may have happened."

He was silent.

"Aren't you...aren't you even the teensiest bit exhausted? From making yourself feel this way all the time. I don't know about you, because you won't tell me, but...I'm sick and tired of this. I want it to it. I just...want...it to stop."

That last part she said with emphasis.

"When is it going to stop? When every last copycat is dead? When Stiggie's dead? Tell me!"

Silence.

She fell back against the wall and slid down. "Tarokun, we used to be happy. I just want to go back to those days...it wasn't that long ago. I just..."

And that was when she started to choke up. "Why can't we just...Why do you have to-

*knock knock*

Wiping her eyes Bonnie stood up and opened the door.

"Hey, I need to use the bathroom," Gordy said.

He peered past her. "Who are you talking to?"

She shook her head. "Nobody."

And then she smiled, reassuringly. "I'm just talking to myself. Don't worry about it."

She brushed past him and stormed to her room, upon which she closed the door behind her, fell onto the bed, turned off her lamp, and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

**The Next Day, Friday**

The door creaked open. Footsteps.

She opened her eyes and turned her head. There was Gordy.

"Mom wants to know if you're going to eat," he said in his usual monotone voice. "There's three eggs left."

And so Bonnie got out of bed. As she ate breakfast in the kitchen, her mother was on the phone talking with Mrs. Miller.

The second her mouth received the last bite from her fork, her mother put the phone back on the machine.

She turned to Bonnie. "You almost finished with that?"

Three seconds later Bonnie took a gulp of milk, and then nodded. "Done. What happened with Aunt Kathy last night?"

Stacey sighed. "Well, you heard all that anyways, so...she left disappointed. I hope she doesn't stay mad at me, because we're not going to change our minds about the money. We have our own bills to pay, and she should've been more mindful of that fact."

Bonnie put her dishes in the sink.

"You don't have anything to do today, right?"

"Uh, no," Bonnie said. "I don't think so. Why?"

"Your father forgot the lunch I prepared him. Can you go bring it to him?"

"...It'll take me an hour just to get there, though."

"I know," her mother said. "I have to bring Gordy to the dentist in ten minutes to get that cavity filled, so I can't take it to your father right now. I mean, if it's really that much trouble then-

"No, it's fine," Bonnie said.

She grabbed the lunchbox off the counter and headed out the door.

* * *

She swung open the transparent door and the little bell ring. She went up to the front desk.

"May I help you?" the receptionist asked.

"Could you give this to Chad Cartwright?"

The woman raised an eyebrow. "And who are you?"

"It's good."

Gay walked up to them. "Hey Bonnie. That for your dad? I'll give it to him."

She handed it over and nodded. "Thanks, Mr. Callaghan."

And with that she was out the door again, a twenty second exchange for which she traveled an hour and for which she'd now have to travel an hour back.

* * *

She approached the front porch when-

There was a young man standing at the door talking to her mother.

She did not recognize him.

And then it hit he-

_It's fine. That's not our guy_.

"How do you know?" she asked, trying to keep herself from getting worked up.

_Because that person wouldn't be so bold as to do this in the middle of the day. Plus, we can presume he scouts his victims out ahead of time. He would know that your mom didn't live alone_.

Knowing that he had a valid point, she breathed a sigh of relief and walked forwards.

A few seconds later the man wrapped up his conversation and began to leave, walking past Bonnie.

Bonnie stepped inside.

"Who was that?" she asked.

"He said he was with a church called the Jehovah's Witnesses," Stacey said, not entirely sure what to make of that. "He gave me this pamphlet and invited me to attend services. I turned him down, so he left."

She handed the pamphlet to Bonnie.

After about a minute of reading she found that it seemed to check out.

Still, her heart was racing from the ordeal. She headed upstairs to her room and closed the door behind her.

And then:

"...I'm in."

_Huh_?

"Our guy. Let's nail him, and do whatever we have to so that he can't hurt anyone else."

_You wanna go right now_?

"Yeah."

* * *

She walked down the narrow wooden stairs.

"Mom, I'm going out again," she announced.

"Huh?"

"Yeah, I thought since I had nothing better to do I'd go hang out with my friends."

(Again, she didn't want to specify which friends.)

"Um, OK," Stacey said. "How late do you think you're going to be?"

"I should be back before this evening. You're not fixing a big dinner tonight, are you?"

Her mother shook her head. "No, it's fine. Have a good time."

And then Gordy came down the stairs. "Hey Bonnie, look at this."

He opened his mouth and showed her his mercury filling on his front left side of this mouth.

"Gross," she said. "Why'd you show me that?"

He grinned. "You wanna see it again?"

"No!"

"But it's like I have silver teeth now! Isn't that cool?"

"Tooth, singular. And I think you should start brushing better."

"The dentist says it's because he doesn't floss," Stacey said.

"But mom, flossing makes my mouth bleed," he protested.

"Well, that's better than having to wear dentures at thirty, isn't it?" Bonnie retorted.

Gordy scoffed. "Nah. All my teeth would be metallic. And then I'd be like a superhero. They'd call me...Lockjaw."

That was just about enough to make Stacey topple over in laughter. Bonnie likewise chuckled until her insides hurt.

And then:

Wham.

She understood. At long last she understood. She wasn't sure whether Tarokun let it slip by accident or if he finally decided to disclose this to her, after recently deciding to clam up (for reasons unbeknownst to her).

But now she understood it, in this moment. Maybe not everything, but enough, or so she thought.

On the level of the soul, the two saw face to face, eye to eye, without having to say or think a word. Their intents lined up. Needless to say, this hadn't happened in a while. But now it did.

Bonnie stepped out of the room, and stood at an angle where he face would not be seen by family while talking with Nobutaro (last night was too close a call for her).

Her heart felt warmed and pained at the same time as she understood what it was he wanted, and what would make him feel better. There was no perfect solution, but for a little while maybe this would satisfy him.

"You want this, don't you," she whispered.

_Yes. And I'm sorry. I know that I'd probably be asking too much of you. It's selfish of me, and you absolutely don't have to_-

Bonnie shook her head. "No. It's no problem at all. Do it."

There was a moment's hesitation. But then she could feel it dawning upon him, the realization that what was once not permitted was now permitted, if just this once. It all happened so fast, like an avalanche, and:

*vreeng*

He re-entered the kitchen, where Mrs. Cartwright and Gordy were. He figured that, since obviously they'd see no distinction between Bonnie and the him that inhabited Bonnie's body in this moment, he could get away with this.

Right now he had a license to just go for it. He didn't want to let this opportunity pass him up.

He rapidly moved forward, until her motion devolved into a borderline fall, wrapped his/her arms around Bonnie's mother, and-

Stacey was definitely surprised by this. But she was quick to reciprocate by hugging back.

"Mom," he said with Bonnie's lips in English, "I'm worried."

Mom. The sound of that word coming from his lips, in this context. Did he dare?

"Worried?"

"There are bad men out there. You could get hurt."

"Shh," Stacey whispered back, still not entirely sure what was going on but nonetheless performing her obligation here. "I'm not going anywhere. You'll always have me."

"You promise?"

"I promise. Nothing bad will happen to any of us. If anybody tries to hurt any member of this family, your father will protect us."

Your father will protect us.

Nobutaro felt hot. That last remark triggered something in him that put him in a bad mood once again.

Trying not to show it, he quickly headed out the door and then switched back.

*vreeng*

_...Thank you_.

She smiled wistfully. "You're welcome. But, what I don't understand is..."

Silence.

"Why now? After all this time, why now?"

There was a sigh on the other end.

_Bonnie, you have a family that loves you very much. I've been going along with the ride for a long time now, but recently I've come to realize...What's true for you is not true for me_.

"H-Huh...?"

_Thank you always for letting me be a part of your world. But our two worlds are, regardless, fundamentally different. You offer me daily respite from that fact, but sooner or later I'm going to face the music for the crime of having been born into this world as the person that I am_.

"Is that...why you've been holding back on me?"

_Yes. I hold back my true feelings because I am me and you are you. We can talk like this. This should be enough, and I don't see any reason why this has to change. But the way that we've been living most of our lives, how do I put this...? It's unnatural. Closer than we should've been. Our individuality is put into question whenever we do that, and I believe that a man's individuality is the most precious and inviolable of human privileges on this earth. Even married couples don't do that_...

Upon that last remark Bonnie felt him getting flustered, though of course an association between the abstract principle/example raised and the implication between these two individuals in question would be enough to make either one of them blush.

"So what you're saying is, you believe I should do the same to you?"

_Yes. That is exactly what I am saying. As things stand right now, you disclose too much. I try to keep out of your most private thoughts, but you're certainly not making it easy for me. It might take some time, and a little getting used to, but I believe that it's in your best interests as well as mine. We aren't children anymore, after all_.

Silence.

_Well? Aren't you going to say anything_?

"Like what? What you're telling me to do is..."

_I understand. You'll need some time to think it over_.

_But for the time being_, he continued, _we need to focus on our mission_.

Bonnie reluctantly nodded. "Alright then. Let's go. You wanna check out the crime scene again?"

_Yeah. Did you bring enough change to call Mr. Yuri_?

"I did."

_Then this shouldn't take very long_.

* * *

They pulled over about half a block away from the house, so as to not draw attention to themselves. Bonnie got out and started walking.

Sure enough, there was crime scene tape covering the front door. But that shouldn't have been an issue; what they were really here for was what they were unable to examine at night: the outdoors of the crime scene.

If there was anything that they missed, anything at-

Bonnie was taken aback, not expecting to find something like this so easily.

They were in the backyard, from which they could see the road on the opposite side. About a foot into the victim's back yard from that road they could make out the beginning of tire tracks.

_I see. He used that to avoid witnesses_.

"They're way too narrow to be from a car," Bonnie said. "That and way too light."

_And it's not like he would've just parked a car here anyways. No, this was_...

"A bicycle," Bonnie finished. "But how did he take the vacuum cleaner with him?"

_He must've carried it with...Crud_.

"Huh? What is it?"

_I know what kind of person was behind this_.

* * *

Yuri began clearing his desk of the random clutter, setting things on his kitchen table.

Then he took the map out from under his bed, took it out of the long, narrow cylindrical container, and unfurled it across his desk.

"Alright, give me the address one more time," he said.

Bonnie told him.

He went and grabbed his notebook in which he had the prior two addresses listed, and he wrote down the third one.

Then he began peering over the map.

"Let's see," he muttered. "Jersey Street would be over...here, so that means..."

He looked down at his notes for reference.

Then finally he nodded, after about two minutes.

"You have something?"

"If my estimates are correct, all of these places are within thirty minutes of a single point. That's not to say they form a perfect triangle, but...yeah. It looks pretty compelling to me."

"Thirty minutes?" Bonnie repeated, following Nobutaro's lead.

"At about jogging speed," Yuri clarified. "Our culprit's on a bike, so clearly he's going fast enough to warrant not just walking. But not very fast, if what you're saying is true. Come look at this."

He circled an area on the map.

"What we're looking for is probably a teenage boy who lives in this area," he concluded.

He shrugged. "Granted, that still leaves a lot of possible suspects, but it's definitely a start. If he strikes again soon, I don't know if you'll have enough time to stop him, but eventually-

"Tarokun says no," Bonnie said awkwardly. "He says we're going to kill him tomorrow night."

Yuri sighed. "I...wouldn't get my hopes up that high. Investigations like this take time. You two have already done more than the police at this point, I'm sure. Just be confident in that."

"Tarokun," Bonnie said, "We don't have to go down this road. Mr. Yuri can tip off the police as to the leads we've gotten so far. At the very least that should cause him to lie low for a while, perhaps keep him from taking any more victims until the police gather the evidence to put him behind bars."

_You don't understand_, Nobutaro said, though only Bonnie could hear him. _People like him aren't like us. They aren't human. They're vermin. You know what the Good Book says: a life for a life. We're doing The Lord's work by giving these evildoers what they deserve_.

"And we aren't exactly like him?" she responded sternly.

_...No. We aren't_.

"What did he say?" Yuri asked.

Bonnie looked at him. "He's going to do this, whether we like it or not."

* * *

**The Next Day, Saturday**

After dinner Bonnie retired to her room to hit the sack early, locked the door behind her, and then snuck out the window and ran out to Yuri's car.

From there they drove to the Post Office.

The man behind the counter waved as Bonnie headed over to where the safety deposit boxes.

Once again she found the number belonging to Chad Cartwright, unlocked it with a key, opened it, and took it out.

Her weapon of choice, a Ka-Bar combat knife that her dad had lifted off of a dead Marine years ago during his days fighting in the Pacific Theater of WWII and which he since brought home as a memento. It was a very sturdy weapon, designed to meet the rigorous standards of modern warfare. Perfect for killing.

She slipped it in her pocket was about to leave, but then she turned around and took something else out.

It was the photo, of her dad with an unknown Asian (probably Japanese) woman. She and Nobutaro took a good look at it, and then put it back and locked the safety deposit box once more.

She returned to the car, buckling up in the passenger seat up front.

The car just sat there for a solid minute.

"What are you waiting for?" Bonnie asked finally.

Yuri sighed. "If I can please speak to Tarokun?"

...

*vreeng*

"Yes?"

It still unnerved him, knowing that in the blink of an eye he was now speaking to a wholly different person. He could see it on the face of Bonnie, a whole different expression and temperament belonging to Nobutaro.

But he cast that thought aside and:

"You understand the seriousness of what you're about to do?"

"Yes. A person is about to lose his life. I know what that means, I know what that looks like. I know very well how terrible that is under normal circumstances."

"And?"

"This isn't about what I want."

"Oh?"

"Somebody has to do it. If not me, then...who?"

There was a pause.

"Taro-kun," Yuri said. "It could be said that there are three universal human taboos. Do you know what they are?"

"No, but I have a feeling you're just about to tell me."

Yuri laughed. "Come now, don't be such a party pooper. They are as following: murder, incest, and cannibalism. The first is pretty self-explanatory. For any given person, the safest world that he could live in is one where the act of people killing each other does not take place. As for the second, modern science has shown that inbreeding has a deleterious effect on the human genome. If practiced continuously by large numbers of people the end result would be the extinction of the human race. But how about cannibalism?"

"I don't know. It relates to murder, perhaps?"

Yuri shook his head. "If the person's already dead, what would it matter, were that the case? No, cannibalism is taboo because the human body contains sicknesses that can infect human beings, by definition. Whereas with animals the viruses present might not be able to effectively interact with the human body, for humans a virus can do the same to one person as it does another. Just think: the Black Death was introduced to Europe when a few infected corpses were catapulted over a city wall by an invading army. Tens of millions of people died as a consequence. If mere proximity to dead bodies could cause that, what do you think eating infected human meat could do?"

"I see."

"There are exceptions to these rules, of course. Taboos against murder do not preclude the possibility of the phenomenon known as 'warfare', which both of our countries know exceptionally well. First-Cousin marriages are still commonplace in many parts of the world. Cannibalism is practiced by some hunter-gatherer tribes. But also, there is what I refer to as semi-cannibalism. That is, the consumption of higher primate species other than human beings. On the plains of Africa there are peoples who kill and eat 'bushmeat', which includes the likes of chimpanzees. Among chimps we've found specimens suffering from a condition known as immunodeficiency syndrome, in which there is something that attacks the body's immune system from the inside, so that even something like the common cold might prove deadly. Most likely this is caused by some kind of virus that affects chimpanzees."

"You have to think," Yuri continued. "Chimpanzees are the closest relatives to human beings among the animals. We probably share a large percentage of our DNA in common with them, I'm sure. It might just take one or two notable mutations for this simian immunodeficiency virus to become able to infect people. The first ones affected would be the local African bushmeat eaters. But then, when you consider large numbers of Western tourists going on safari on the African continent and then traveling home, I imagine that in this scenario it would spread quickly to, for instance, the American coast, and then into this country's interior regions. Depending on how easily transmissible such a virus might be, it could be like the Black Death all over again, since we'd have zero immunity to it."

"I think you're full of something else on this one."

"Fair enough. It might not ever happen. But the point is, there are serious consequences for those who violate these taboos. That's why aversion to the second taboo is ingrained in us from birth, and why an aversion to the first and third might naturally develop later, and why society instills in all of us an aversion to all three. For an adult person, that aversion is largely an instinctual matter. Your mind is trained to punish itself should you violate these taboos, and in the most severe manner. To have to live in such a state of self-loathing and negative emotion every day ...well, let's just say that in my opinion you'd be doing that person a favor in putting him out of his misery for good."

"Was this pep talk supposed to make me feel better? I already know what I have to do, and why I have to do it."

"...Alright then," Yuri said. "I just thought I'd give it a shot."

He put the car in Drive and slowly pulled out of the parking space.

But Nobutaro, looking away, then said:

"You're saying that our guy has to be miserable right now, having violated the first of the three taboos. But in my book, just one out of three wouldn't be so bad."

"Huh? What does that mean?"

"...Nothing. I'll call you when the job's done. Don't wait around."

And with that, Yuri let his foot off the brake and they were on their way in a short time.

* * *

*click click clank*

That could be to his disadvantage, he knew. His bike lock. With it he couldn't claim that somebody else stole his trusty bike and used it for the heinous crimes in question, if push came to shove. Then again, the odds of his bike being used as evidence against him were slim to none, and in any case he'd soon be able to afford to dispose of it.

Monday. Two days from now. He'd finish his last exams, he'd gather his stuff, and then his parents would come bring him home. Dad promised him a car of his very own so long as he did good on his finals; he was confident that he made excellent grades, in any case, so he knew the promised reward was as good as his at this point. All he needed to do was get a sizable bit of studying in Sunday and he'd be ready to roll the next day.

One he had that car, he could afford to dispose of the bike. All things considered he probably should've just waited until then before setting off on his string of murders, but it would be at least a couple months before college, so...

Several rooms on the school grounds had carpets, so there was need of a guy to vacuum it, and of course for a vacuum cleaner. It was kept in an unlocked closet. He could easily sneak it out of there at night, so long as he made a point to unlock a window during the day. From there he could secure it with his bookstrap, sling it over his shoulder, and slip the bookstrap's loop handle up his arm. It was a pain to lug around, but worth it.

It wasn't a pain to dress up every time; all he had to do was keep on his school uniform. Grooming his hair at the end of the day was only about a five minute comb job. Once all preparations were made he was free to go.

As a straight-A student and captain of the debate team at the Rockefeller Academy in Wichita (a prep school) Doug McCormack, age 18, knew that he would not be up there on the police's list of suspects, assuming that they even believed these happenings to be the work of something other than the suicidal intent of a few lonely middle-aged ladies.

Old maids. That's what they were. The women who all of the men rejected. Unfit to reproduce, and therefore unfit to survive. He had no qualms about taking their lives; he was a superior human specimen and they were far from his equals. He knew that eventually the police would realize that this was the work of some ingenious serial killer, years and years from now, when he had a good job somewhere far away from here. Those police files would eventually be leaked to the police, and an entire subculture would develop around the study and de facto celebration of this unknown larger-than-life shadowy figure who once operated in the Wichita area.

He would be immortalized. Like the person who kidnapped the Lindbergh baby. Or like the man who shot President Kennedy.

Or like the Stigmata Killer.

Stiggie had six documented kills. He was intent on topping that soon enough. That person, whoever he was, was very showy, posing the bodies for dramatic effect.

But he's not nearly as smart as me, he thought. No. I kill with finesse. I'll show him up soon enough. He's nothing but a second rate psycho compared to me.

He pedaled his bike along the smooth path. The front gate was just up ahead.

He knew that somebody passing by in a car might get a brief flash of a guy on a bicycle. They most certainly wouldn't think anything of it, of course. Why would they? And why would they bother remembering a detail like that? He stayed in the lane contra the flow of traffic, so they were unlikely to catch a glimpse of his back in any case.

He was getting nearer to the gate. But:

Was that the faint outline of an approaching person he made out in the dark?

He couldn't tell whether the person was in his way or not. So he decided to just stop and let them pass.

But then, they came to a stop. Just a few feet away.

What resulted was a stare-off, or rather a squint-off. Neither one could clearly see the other, and there was only a half moon out tonight.

To his right, and to that other person's left, was a tall oak tree. An irrelevant detail but still.

By the outline's shape it seemed to Doug that the person was wearing either a long coat or a dress. Given the time of year, he figured it was probably the latter.

Should I just try to go around her without saying a word? he thought. It sounded like a good id-

Suddenly, a bright light was shining on his face.

He got off his bike, kicked the stand down, and stood upright.

"Who are you?" he demanded, wincing and half looking away. "Show yourself!"

"...Who am I?"

So it is a woman, he realized. Wait...surely that isn't-

"I am the King of Hearts. I know your every thought and intent. I know the evil that your mind has devised, and that your hands have worked."

He then realized that he'd seen her earlier today: a girl about his age, walking around campus. For about five seconds straight she had stopped and looked right at him, though he was one guy in a crowd of about nine. Granted, he couldn't tell for certain whether this was her, since he was in the dark, but it would've made sense if she were.

"Who are you? Are you the family of one of those women?"

"No. I'm here to give you one chance."

"A...chance?"

"Yes," Nobutaro/Bonnie said. "I need you to listen very, very carefully to what I'm about to tell you. Because I will not repeat myself."

He turned his flashlight off.

And then he/she sprinted forwards at lightning speed.

* * *

_The car pulled over in the middle of nowhere, them having gone off the road minutes ago. There was nothing but empty prairie in every direction. Yuri and "Bonnie" got out of the car._

_"Why did we come all the way out here?" Nobutaro asked._

_"Because we'll have plenty of room to practice this way, and it's unlikely anybody will see us."_

_Yuri unbuttoned his waistcoat and revealed a scabbard beneath. He handed a certain sharp tool to Nobutaro/Bonnie, holding it backwards by the tip of the blade._

_"A butter knife?"_

_Yuri shrugged. "If you lose or break one I've got more to spare. Now...let's begin. First, there's grip."_

_"Hmm?"_

_"Tarokun, how do you hold a knife? And I don't mean when you're in the kitchen. When you're in a fight, how should you hold a knife?"_

_"Umm, well, I've never been in a fight," Nobutaro said. "So I wouldn't know."_

_"That's a good answer, but also a bad answer. What do you want to accomplish in a fight?"_

_"To beat the other guy?"_

_"Yes, but if you're using a knife then I think you want more than just to beat him up. Your objective in that case is either to scare him off or to kill him. Whatever eliminates the threat to your person or otherwise accomplishes your goal. So either way you have to know how to use good grip."_

_"Now, I don't think your goal is to go around picking fights on the street," Yuri said. "If you want to kill someone, you want to get it done with quickly and without hassle. So in that case let's assume an ambush of some kind. There are two kinds of ambushes. In Scenario A, he doesn't know you're even there until BAM! Do it right and he won't have time to defend himself before he's got a little present lodged six inches into his chest. In Scenario B, he knows you're there but he doesn't know you're about to attack him. Again, do it right and he won't have time to defend himself. The second approach can be every bit as deadly as the first, if implemented effectively. If attempting the second, you're gonna need to learn how to fastdraw."_

_"Fastdraw?" Nobutaro asked, confused._

_"You ever seen one of those Westerns? They grab their gun from their holster really fast and shoot. It all takes like one second. That's a fast draw. Now, overall you can't act quite that fast if you're using a knife, but you can draw your blade from its sheath or scabbard just as easily as you can a gun, if not easier. The faster you draw your knife, the less time to respond your enemy will have. And that's good news for you, obviously. That's something you're gonna want to practice."_

_"But for now," he continued, "we're gonna talk about grip. There are two broad categories of knife-holding method. There's forward grip and reverse grip. Both are pretty straightforward to define. With forward grip, your thumb is closet to the blade of all your fingers, and the farthest from the butt of the hilt, which in some knifes is a prominent feature called a pommel. If you're gonna use a army-grade weapon and not a kitchen knife then it's going to have a pommel. That's just the way it works. With reverse grip, your thumb is closest to the pommel of all your fingers, and farthest from the blade."_

_Nobutaro tried these two grips out for his/her self._

_"Reverse grip is bad in a normal fight," Yuri said bluntly. "You can't slash very well with it and it's especially bad for attacking at low angles. But it's good for stabbing, because you can put a lot more power into your movement. Get more bang for your buck, or so to speak. If you're gonna catch somebody by surprise, and especially if that person isn't an experienced knife fighter or martial arts expert, you might want to go with a reverse grip strike. You can put both hands into it, to sink your weight and body strength into the knife's movement. And believe me, if you're gonna be fighting grown men in that body you're gonna need all the strength and weight you can get. Now, there's also the question of finger posture. Obviously, your thumb is going to want to be clenching the knife tightly. If any finger is off the knife, your grip is going to be much weaker, and without a good grip you can't make the knife do exactly as you want it to do when you're swinging or thrusting it at high force. Lose control of your knife and that's it, you've lost already, unless you can somehow manage to regain control."_

_"What if there's nowhere for my thumb?" Nobutaro asked._

_"Then you're holding it wrong," Yuri said. "Either you can place your thumb on the pommel, when does wonders for the strength of your grip, _

* * *

Second type of ambush. Reverse grip strike, in a curved, semi-elliptical movement, from left to right. Target area: the mid-to-upper area of the heart, on the left side of the chest. One second for posture adjustment before strike. No fast draw needed. Flashlight tossed to side at onset of movement.

In short, Nobutaro did just about everything right going into this attack.

But luck just wasn't on his side tonight.

As he went forwards, he tripped on the bike stand. His knife, consequently, sunk into Doug McCormack's left shoulder. The force and shock knocked him a few feet back and then to the ground. The bicycle fell over onto Nobutaro/Bonnie, knocking him onto his side.

It took him a couple seconds to dislodge his/her self and stand up. By this time, of course, McCormack had stood up and regained his composure, now being cognizant of the situation.

"You b*tch! You tried to kill me!"

He removed the knife from his shoulder and brandished it. Nobutaro couldn't see that in the dark, but:

_He's holding the knife! He's about to charge! Duck and trip him_!

And that's exactly the way it played out.

Falling into the grass, McCormack was unable to keep his attacker from diving onto him and grabbing his knife.

Before Nobutaro could deal a lethal blow, McCormack got himself positioned right, put his feet to Bonnie's stomach, and kicked hard. Being light as she was, and considering his strength, she was sent flying a couple feet onto his/her back.

Bruises and scrapes all over, Nobutaro knew he couldn't afford to stay down. He was onto his feet in no time.

"You're-you're psychotic," McCormack said in disbelief, running off past the gate and leaving the bicycle behind.

Fortunately for Nobutaro, running while carrying a vacuum clear on his back was not McCormack's strong suit. He/she almost caught up to the man, who then dived into a car and locked the door behind him.

Nobutaro banged on the door. "Hey, that's not your car you know! Don't think you can just wait this out!"

But then the car came to life.

_The owner must've left the keys in_, Bonnie noted.

The car went into Drive and a now desperate McCormack was about to speed off.

Recognizing that he only had about a one-second window to act, Nobutaro leapt onto the back of the car and managed to grab on to the trunk door handle (which was locked).

A most extreme and dangerous form of hitchhiking, you have to admit.

* * *

_He's running scared_.

"No duh!" Nobutaro retorted, hanging on for dear life, hunching in an awkward and very uncomfortable position, desperate to keep his/her feet above the pavement, which at these speeds could potentially rip her shoes apart and then tear the flesh off of her feet.

_I mean it. He's worried if he stays here you'll kill him, or that other people already know_.

"You mean he's about to skip town?"

_Yes. He just knows he's headed for the Floodway Bridge past Trenton Ave_.

"That'll take him into Broadway."

_I'm sure he doesn't intend on stopping there. He knows the car has over half a tank full. That'll get him a hundred miles out or more. From there he'll just ditch the car and keep running, until he's past state lines_.

Nobutaro grimaced. "I don't think there's any way for me to stop him."

_You have the knife on you. Can you slash one of his tires_?

"...Let me see."

He let go of the handle with one hand to make an attempt when-

The car turned, and Nobutaro very nearly had to let go, just barely managing to grab back on, though his shoes slid on the pavement for a couple of seconds (he could feel the heat emanating from such).

_Sorry, bad idea_.

"No, it's the only plan we've got. You have to tell me how the conditions of the road are up ahead. Tell me when it's clear and I'll try again."

Forty seconds later, Bonnie gave him the clear.

And so he cautiously let go again, scooched to the left, stretched out his arm, and:

_You almost there_?

"I can touch it with the blade, but I don't think that'll cut it...wait a minute."

Turning his wrist so as to hold the blade at an angle, he gave it a try. He held it in place for several seconds, trying very not to let go and hoping that a passing car didn't happen to "graze" his/her hand.

Fifteen seconds later, he heard finally heard the sound of a broken tire being slid across the road at rapid speeds. He knew the car would have to come to a stop soon.

His legs pressing hard against the car, he knew he couldn't afford for his head to go flying forwards into the back glass or onto any part of the vehicle. That would spell an instant death sentence for him, and at that point Bonnie, of course, would be trapped in his body for the rest of her life.

The car showed no sign of stopping as they neared the bridge.

_He's starting to panic. I think he'll be stopping soon_.

The car turned onto the bridge. A clunking sound ensued as it passed over the metal bars, though of course the defining flat tire sound overpowered it in volume.

Soon they were over the bridge.

And then the car began to slow down. Which was good for them, of course, but Nobutaro wasn't going to take any chances yet.

And finally, the car pulled over and came to a stop.

Practically slamming the door open and falling out of the car onto his knees, pressing his shoulder so as to keep blood loss to a minimum, McCormack had a classic "deer in the headlights look" as that young woman with a murderous look in her eyes approached him.

He leapt backwards (because for some reason he thought that would help) and then he/she dived onto him, though this time Nobutaro was careful enough to avoid his legs.

"Bonnie, look away and stop reading him right now. Disconnect for about thirty seconds."

_..._

With one hand he/she forced McCormack's head down and with the other began the slitting motion of the throat.

And then he began convulsing. He grabbed her shoulders and tried to sit up, coughing up blood on Bonnie's face and hair.

But then he stopped moving, and it was over.

Nobutaro looked around. There were no cars coming from any direction.

Still, just to be safe he dragged McCormack's body behind the car so as to lengthen the time it'd take for the body to be discovered, allowing them to make their escape.

Cover in bruises, scrapes, and McCormack's blood, Nobutaro sighed. "We did it."

By foot home was maybe forty five minutes away. They had a lot of ground to cover.

And so, they set off on the journey home into the darkness.

* * *

("Be Thou My Vision" by Kalafina, feat. Yuki Kajiura, instrumentals in "Celtic" style)

_Bi thusa mo shuile a ri mhor na nduil_

_Lion thusa mo bheatha, mo cheadfai's mo stuaim_

_Bi thusa i m'aigne gach oiche's gach la_

_Im chodladh no im dhuiseacht lion me le do gra_

_Bi thusa mo threoru i mbriathar is i mbeart_

_Fan thusa go deo liom is coinnigh me ceart_

_Glac curam mar athair is eist le mo ghui_

_Is tabhair domhsa ait conai istigh i do chroi_

* * *

**The Next Day of May 1966, approximately 8 years after the publication of the "Giles Report" which in the years following inspired a number of copycat serial killers seeking the same infamy enjoyed by the Stigmata Killer, who in 1957 and 1958 took six innocent lives in the Wichita area; those murders were yet unsolved as of this time.**

Gay took pictures of the grisly scene with his oversized flash police camera.

Chad examined the body.

"Well?" Kevin asked. "What do you think?"

"By the distribution of the blood, I'd say...his throat was slit and he also had a stab wound to the left shoulder."

He examined the victim's hands. "No visible piercings here, so..."

"Not Stiggie?" Gay asked.

Chad shook his head. "This doesn't seem to adequately match the MO of Stiggie or of any known copycat."

Kevin shook his head. "You know what I think? I think there was some kind of struggle here."

"Oh yeah?"

Kevin pointed. "You see that flat tire? I think, and this is just my opinion of course, somebody posed as a hitchhiker. They said something that distracted him, slashed his tire so he couldn't escape, and then tried to kill him. But he fought back. Didn't make it easy for the b*st*rd."

"So, uh, what should we call this one?" Gay asked. "The Broadway Police have jurisdiction and were the first to the scene, so we get to name this sicko, right? How about...the Hitchhiker Killer?"

Chad shook his head. "We're not going to give these people what they want. No cute nicknames. These are murderers we're talking about here. The worst kinds of criminals."

Kevin leaned over and examined the wounds on the body more closely. "Hey, Mr. Cartwright, come take a look at this."

They peered in real close to the wound on the shoulder, while Gay looked on from a couple feet away.

"You were in the Pacific war right?" Kevin asked. "So, like, I'm guessing you've seen this exact kind of wound before?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, I was in Korea. I saw it more than I would've liked. This wound was not done by some ordinary knife."

"Trench knife?"

"Or something like that, yeah," Kevin said.

"Trench knife?" Gay repeated. "W-Wait, hold on, wouldn't that match the wounds on-

"Stiggie's victims, yeah," Chad said. "The piercings on their wrists and ankles were done with something similar, or so the Wichita police have speculated based on autopsies."

Kevin shook his head. "Well I'll be. That son of a gun is trying to copy the Stigmata Killer's exact MO. The lengths to which this guy went...looks like they're serious."

"Great, just what Broadway needs," Gay said. "Our very own Stiggie. Just imagine what this'll do to home prices. A dozen black folks moving in couldn't have that kind of effect."

"...I'm going to find this guy."

Gay and Kevin looked at Chad.

"This sh*t doesn't just happen in my town. Not on my watch. I'll catch this...Stigmata copycat, or whatever he likes to call himself. And I'll see to it that he either fries or hangs."

"Still, where'd he get an army knife in the first place?" Gay asked. "You don't think...ex-military?"

Kevin nodded. "It is indeed very peculiar..."

* * *

After church was over, Bonnie headed straight to the women's bathroom.

Washing her hands, she looked up in the mirror and noticed a slight red stain that she apparently missed last night.

Nobutaro noticed it too.

"...I've changed my mind."

_Huh_?

"I don't want red hair anymore."


	2. Chapter 2

**An ufotable production**

**November 1955**

The middle-aged man, whose face was worn by a lifetime of manual labor and continued exposure to the Kyushu sun, gestured with his head towards the traditional mat under the table.

The young man, presumably from an upper social caste, dressed in a Western-style business suit (as though he were a government bureaucrat) and clad with a Western-style mustache, sat down in the traditional manner, as did his host, seated opposite to him.

"Let's see..."

"Hold on a second."

The young man opened his briefcase and took out a typewriter, which he set on the table "Alright."

"Umm, before we begin, who are you exactly?"

"I represent an agency that's interested in the boy."

He folded his arms. "Why?"

"Mr. Hanazawa, your niece's child's birth went undocumented. At this time his whereabouts are unknown to us. As far as we know he could have been exposed. Left to die out in the middle of nowhere, or perhaps buried alive in your backyard."

"Are you accusing me of-

"I'm not accusing anybody of anything at this point. I simply need to know everything that you do."

Silence.

"Let's start from the beginning, shall we? With your niece. Tell me about her."

"I don't see why this is nec-

"Please, Mr. Hanazawa. Don't make me beg."

A smile, which seemed to possibly be masking something more sinister. Could've been his imagination, of course.

Mr. Hanazawa nodded. "Naoko was a strong-willed child. Born into the age of powered flight, and Hollywood. Yet everybody just wanted her to become a (Shinto) priestess like her aunt. Runs in the family, they said. And, you know, they weren't wrong. Some of the things I saw my sis do...it's scary to think that there are even people like that in this world. I swear, there were times when it was like she...knew things. Things she couldn't have known. It was like that even when we were kids."

"This sister of yours, where is she now?"

"She's dead."

"...Oh."

"Yup. Finally drank herself to death back in May."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be. Given how heavily she depended on the bottle to get her through the day, it's amazing how she could've lived as long as she did. She was a tough old bird. Mean too. But...more than anything else, I felt sorry for her. She was once a young woman, and she should've had a good future ahead of her. But instead, she was pledged to the gods. They say it's an honor, but is it worth never being able to marry, have a family?"

He shook his head. "There are people who're cut out for that line of work, I'm sure. But to have that kind of choice made for you...Anyway, that choice was made for Naoko too. As soon as she hit puberty my sister took her under her wing or so to speak, and she spent the next couple years as a priestess in training. When she was sixteen, and her training just about done, she blindsided all of us by leaving a note and running away."

"A note?"

"Yeah, it expressed her frustration with all us, her not wanting to spend the rest of her life here in the country, her desire to work in the big city as a geisha, and meet rich men."

"And when was this?"

"Uhh, I believe it might've been 1939? Before the Pacific War, that's for certain. So about twelve years later, she just shows up again out of the blue, eight months pregnant. And we're all well aware that she conceived out of wedlock. But nonetheless her mother took her in for the following two months, until she gave birth. I'll never forget the day: April 8, 1951."

"...Eight months plus two months? The math doesn't seem to add up, Mr. Hanazawa."

"Actually, it does, because it was a ten month long pregnancy."

Intrigued, the young man raised his eyebrow. "I see. Please, continue."

"The delivery of the baby was pretty horrific. There was blood everywhere. It was...it was more than her body could take."

"She passed away."

Mr. Hanazawa nodded, saddened by the recollection.

"Before she died," he continued, "she confessed something to us. For obvious reasons, we figured that she'd been working as a prostitute, but what she told us then many of us found to be unforgiveable."

"...And that would be...?"

"Naoko had...dalliances with American sailors. Or, more specifically, she had one long-time lover who was a GI stationed in the area."

"And that area would be?"

"I'm not sure. She didn't say. The man in question, shortly after she broke the news to him, returned to his country, as his tour of duty ended. She said that he promised her he'd come back for her. That would've been five years ago. We have not heard from any such person in all of that time."

"Fascinating story, Mr. Hanazawa, but you haven't answered my question."

"I'm not done yet. The boy, who was of half-American heritage, seemed to most of us as an abomination. He carried the blood of our hated enemy. So Naoko's parents refused to take him. And the rest of the family likewise refused to have anything to do with him. So it fell upon me and my wife. She nursed him for about two months. Grew fond of the boy too. We both did. But over the long run we couldn't afford another mouth to feed; times already were hard enough, and food scarce enough. So she took him, traveled to the city, and left him with a (Buddhist) temple. We do not know how he's doing now, as we haven't seen him in the four years since."

The young man finished typing that down. "A temple. That's where the boy is right now?"

"He should still be there, yes."

"Would you happen to know the name of the temple? Or, at least, where it's at? Could you give us the name of a city?"

"...The temple's in Kumamoto. That's what my wife told me, anyways."

The young man nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Hanazawa. Your cooperation has been most helpful to us. One final question: when we find the temple, we'll need to know the boy's name. Without that, well, this'd be one giant fool's errand."

"His name is Nobutaro."

"Oh? Why a name like that?"

"...When my sister was young, there was a boy that she had feelings for. That boy's name was Nobutaro. When she began her training to become a priestess, she had to stop seeing him. Naoko, decades later, being familiar with this story, and about to give birth, decided to give that name to her son, as to make a point: that my sister made the wrong choice, that she should've gone with what her heart told her, instead of submitting herself to the calling that everyone expected of her."

"In short," he concluded, "Naoko did not regret the choice that she made, even if everyone hated her for it. She lived the kind of life that she wanted, to the best of her ability."

He sighed. "Well, if everybody did that then our world would be a mess. But still, I can't help but feel a tinge of envy, though I'm satisfied enough with the life I've made for myself."

The young man, whose peers addressed him by the code name "Gin", put his typewriter away and stood up. "That will be all, Mr. Hanazawa. Thank you for your time. As a friendly warning it would be in your best interests not to tell anyone I was here."

And with that he walked out the door and headed down the dusty path, towards the edge of the grassy hill overlooking the terraced valley.

* * *

**Also Sprach Zarathustra: II: Salutations**

* * *

Even before Gin walked past the large gate and stepped into the courtyard of Honmyo-ji temple, he could hear the chanting of the throngs of gathered monks, organized into neat rows.

In one unified rhythm they repeated over and over again: "Nam myoho renge kyo, nam myoho renge kyo, nam myoho renge kyo, nam myoho renge kyo, nam myoho renge kyo", and, well, you get the idea.

What they were repeating was the Japanese title for the Lotus Sutra, an ancient Buddhist text. In the medieval period a Japanese monk named Nichiren had founded a school of thought which emphasized the power of the recitation of the Lotus Sutra, and especially the title of such, towards achieving the core objectives of the Buddhist faith.

Superstitious relics of the old dead feudal past, Gin thought with disdain. Of course, he couldn't afford to use such discourteous language out loud. Not right now.

He looked around. There were several children, boys, with shaved heads and dressed in temple garb, chanting along with the adults. One of those was Nobutaro. Based on the age range given, he was immediately able to narrow it down to three candidates.

He stood against the wall, set down his briefcase, and waited for them to finish.

Finally, the abbot walked up to him and bowed politely.

"Good morning, sir. Are you here to offer prayer?"

Gin shook his head. "No, actually, the nature of my visit concerns one of your young charges."

* * *

About an hour and a half later, he departed through the front gate of the temple, holding Nobutaro's hand.

Having identified the boy, he'd asked around concerning what the past four years had been like for him. After all, this boy was their last shot. He had to be sure there was no mistake.

Indeed, Nobutaro came from a long line of priestesses renowned in the area for their abilities. Typically the male members of the family demonstrated little to no such ability. But these were desperate times. Meiji, Taisho, and Showa era intelligence had kept an eye on the family, hoping to use their abilities to advance the foreign policy aims of the empire as agents of espionage. However, aside from Nobutaro's mother's aunt there had been no living family members who exhibited those abilities as of the time of the Pacific War, and her abilities were too limited to be of strategic value, as Mr. Hanazawa admitted.

There had been a mix-up of sorts: Gin had not been informed about the aunt's existence ahead of time, his orders rather being to locate Nobutaro, the last member of the family whose clairvoyant potential had yet to undergo any sort of investigation or evaluation.

And so, before leaving the temple Gin had some questions for the people who lived alongside him all this time. He wanted to know if anything out of the ordinary happened. And to his good fortune, his inquiry did not lead to disappointment.

The abbot was the first, the one who identified the boy for him. The abbot, as it turned out, led one of two "factions" within the temple that resulted from Nobutaro's arrival. There were those who sought to expel the "half-blood mongrel", that "demon child", from their holy place, and those who felt sorry enough for him to try to protect him from these. The abbot, of course, fell into the latter camp; otherwise the boy would've been sent away long ago.

Gin was intrigued especially at their characterization of the boy as a "demon child". There were other monks who were happy to give anecdotes explaining why they thought of him in such terms:

One monk attested to the fact that when Nobutaro was only a couple of months old he suddenly fell backwards and began convulsing and coughing up spittle, as though he were drowning on land; the incident only lasted a couple of seconds and never happened again afterwards.

That wasn't the end of it, however. In fact, things took a sharp turn for the worse whenever Nobutaro became old enough to talk, and to understand other people talking. A couple months ago, Nobutaro held the nails as one of the senior monks did some maintenance on a part of the roof, which had been damaged in a storm the night prior. The monk was careless and he ended up striking his finger with the hammer. Reflexively dropping the hammer (and thus having to climb all the way down the ladder to retrieve it), he was then surprised to hear the boy ask:

"_Neh_, what's that word mean?"

"What word?" the monk had responded, annoyed.

"F**k."

"...Where did you hear that word from?"

"You just said it."

"N-no I didn't!" the monk had protested, feeling hot.

"Yes you did...See, you said it again!"

That particular unwelcome instance of mind-reading wasn't the first, or the last. And as it so turned out, Nobutaro could not keep a secret very well. He was quick to tell on anyone who did or thought anything unwholesome by the standards of the faith, and so he gradually lost whatever friends he had, with the possible exception of the abbot.

But even the abbot knew it was best if the boy left, which was why he gladly handed custody of him over to Gin, even though he had no clue about this man's intentions.

* * *

They crossed the street and walked towards the phone booth.

They stepped inside the wooden box.

"Why don't you have a seat right there."

Nobutaro sat down while the grown-up who was dressed up all fancy stood, closed the door behind him, set down his briefcase once more, and reached into his pocket for change to operate the machine.

" Who are you?"

"You're the one who's supposed to be psychic," Gin said indifferently. "Figure it out."

He spun the dial until the full number was inserted. Then he listened for the dial tone (this phone was new enough a model to not require a switchboard operator). And then finally:

" ...This is Gin. Yes, I've got him right here. And yes, he's everything that we've been looking for. Tell Mr. Suzuki and have somebody swing by to pick him up...I'm correct in assuming that you can trace the location of this call, no?"

Nobutaro wasn't sure what to make of his present situation. Was this his long lost family coming back for him? Or was he going to be put in an orphanage, like what he heard a lot of kids lived in? Either way he didn't mind too much, because a lot of the monks were mean to him and wouldn't answer him when he asked a question. If he was going to an orphanage then maybe he'd be surrounded by kids his age? Maybe day to day life wouldn't be so dull as it was at the temple, and he wouldn't have to sit still all the time. Maybe he could play and be noisy, and nobody would tell him to shut up? He hoped so.

But then I'll have to go to school, he thought with disappointment. I don't want to go to school.

The man named Gin hung up and looked down at him.

"Don't cause us any trouble, kid," he said. "If you know what's good for you. Do as you're told, and you might just live to be as old as I am."

So he's mean too, Nobutaro thought. Well, at least he's talking to me.

"Somebody's going to come for you," Gin said. "They'll take you on a car ride...you like car rides?"

Nobutaro shrugged. "I never been in one. I don't know if I like it or not."

"Well you're about to find out. In case you're reading my mind right now, I don't know where they're going to take you. I'm sure that's intentional. Only the driver will know, and you won't be able to find that out from him until after you get in the car. And as for him or her, I'm sure he'll only have an address, instead of having personal knowledge about the place. So wherever they bring you to live, I'm sure you won't know until you get there."

"Don't think of ever returning to the temple," Gin continued, "because I'm sure they won't let you do that. What your life will be like from this point on, whether you'll have other kids to play with, I don't know. My one and only job was to find you, and soon it'll be out of my hands. Whatever happens from this point on is not on me. I just followed orders this one time. If I didn't do it then somebody else would've."

And so they exited the phone box and waited in silence on the street corner for Nobutaro's ride to pull up. It would be a good two and a half hours.

* * *

**Friday, December 9, 1955**

The grainy reel combined with the painfully distorted orchestra music combined for the white title card in old font made for an unwelcomely authentic 1950s viewing experience.

"Interviewing for a Job"

"Today, millions upon millions of Americans are fast at work, fueling the industrial machine that is the modern economy. Millions more are eager to get in on the action. Maybe you also are looking for work. Maybe you have a dream, a specific job you want. But to succeed in getting the job that you want, more likely than not you're going to have to pass the Job Interview."

"Now what is a job interview, you may ask? Well, in the modern workforce there are certain qualifications and traits that employers are looking for, and others that they want to avoid. Simply put, a Job Interview is a screening process in which they get to meet with you and, based on the outcome of that meeting, decide whether you're a good fit for the position they need filled."

"The Job Interview is not an exact science, however. There are many variables affecting whether they'll favor you or reject you as a candidate besides qualifications on paper. To succeed in the Job Interview can be described as something of an art form, a skill that you can learn through a combination of hard experience and materials that provide helpful pointers, such as books, or this video that you're watching now. Indeed, over the next twenty minutes you will have the chance to learn all the ins and outs of the Job Interview. If you have a pencil and paper, it would be helpful to take as many notes as you can."

The two officers, dressed in uniform, were escorted by the manager into the dark, scarcely filled theatre room. The manager pointed to the man, squirming in his seat.

They walked across the rows and positioned themselves right in front of him.

"Y-You're blocking the screen," he said, his voiced slurred.

"Sir, if you would please come with us," one of the two officers, Chad Cartwright, age 31, said.

The man shook his head obstinately. "I'm watching a movie. Go away."

The two officers looked at each other. "Alright. We're doing this the hard way."

They grabbed his shoulders and picked him up.

In a drunken stupor he made a half-hearted effort to resist, even threw a really pathetic punch, but they soon got him lying face first on the ground and his arms behind his back. Chad's partner cuffed the man. Then they lifted him onto his feet and led him out of the theatre.

Soon, the man was sitting in the back seat of a police car, property of the Broadway Police Department, parking a couple yards from the front entrance to the Nickelodeon Theater, located along Main Street.

Chad did a hand wiping/washing/clapping gesture that signaled a "job well done".

His partner, Gay Callaghan, age 26, sighed. "It seems like half the calls we get are about nuisances like this guy. I wish something more exciting would happen in this town, ya know?"

(Author's Note: If you want an image in your head as to what these two guys look like, just imagine that Chad looks like a slightly redheaded Andy Griffith and Gay looks like a less ugly version of Barney Fife.)

Chad shook his head. "I've had about enough excitement already to last me until I'm good and dead."

"Huh?"

"Eh, it's nothing. But you know, some towns aren't as lucky as this one. I've been doing this over four years, and I don't remember this department coming across a single homicide in all that time. A few accidents, even suicides. But no murders. I think we should count our blessings. Not everybody can say that. I know conditions are a lot more serious for the boys up in Wichita. They have to deal with murderers and murder victims all the time. Would you rather that?"

"Well, I guess when you put it that way..."

Gay looked at him. "Were you, uh, by any chance, were you...did you see, uh, action, in the...?"

"Yes sir, I did," Chad said. "We chased the Japs all the way to Okinawa, I'm proud to say."

Gay nodded soberly, trying to imagine what that must've been like. "I was sixteen when it ended. I guess I should count myself lucky those atomic bombs were dropped, or I might've one day been sent over to that awful place myself."

Chad shrugged. "Japan's not so bad when there aren't bullets flying at you."

There was a pause.

"This is the first time we've worked together, isn't it? I'm Chad."

"Gay. What happened to your, um, your other partner?"

"Oh, Harvie? Measles."

"Measles?"

Chad laughed. "Yeah. You can believe it, right? Man's nearly 50 years old and he's never had measles before until now."

"I guess today just wasn't his day. Come on, let's take this malcontent to a holding cell."

They got into the car, with Chad in the driver's seat, and headed to the station with their man in tow.

* * *

"Yes, right there will do."

The two grunting men set it down gently into spot and then wiped their hands for symbolic effect.

A television cabinet, with two drawers beneath the 21 inch screen, handy for storing small items.

Stacey bent down, grabbed the plug, and inserted it into the single electrical outlet along that side of the wall in the living room, as they had planned to one day do ever since they bought the house in March 1951.

And it was a brand new model (black-and-white), costing $249. Once the antenna was finished being set up outside, it would work for years. Up to ten years, maybe more. Television sets of this time were built to last a relatively long while, as they were too expensive to readily replace.

They'd waited a long time to see this day of glory, investing in such appliances as a washing machine, a refrigerator, an electric iron, a vacuum cleaner, and a toaster. It'd taken them over four years of to get to this point. Mr. Miller had stopped by each evening to hand over the newspaper after he'd finished with it, so that they didn't have to pay the price of a daily subscription with the _Wichita Eagle_, and they only indulged in tea once a week. In the evenings they kept the lights on only in the kitchen, the living room, and/or the bedroom, and the bathroom when in use. The upstairs rooms were perpetually in the dark during the later hours. To save on the water bill Chad only bathed three times a week (once on Saturday nights for church the following day, and two other times a week at his discretion). Also, for all of this time he had driven the same 1937 Ford that he bought used for cheap in 1946, and Stacey had been largely limited in her outings by the fact that her husband took this vehicle with him to work all day (for a ten-hour workday) 6 days a week. A lot of grocery stores were not open on Sunday, so Stacey had to walk rather long distances holding a meager two paper bags of groceries during the weekdays, and make several such trips during the week, during which Mrs. Miller was gracious enough to watch Bonnie, and then Gordy also.

Maybe these sacrifices were not so extreme compared to, say, what the conditions that grandparents had lived in, but for them, and especially for Stacey, it had been something of a struggle, especially in the first year or so.

But now all that was starting to paying off. The next item on their list would be a car for Stacey. For that they'd take out another loan, though they were still in the middle of paying off their mortgage and the interest accumulated in the process of such. Luckily for them, Chad had recently been given a raise to $2.50 an hour, a 35 cent increase from ten months prior. Things were starting to look up for them.

As soon as these men were finished she would try the TV out to see what channels were playing. She'd heard from a friend about something called the Howdy Doody Show, which she figured Bonnie and Gordy would enjoy. She could use it to keep them distracted and relatively well behaved for long stretches, and so maybe she could go on some of her outings without having to ask Mrs. Miller to babysit again. In that sense, then, this was only not a frivolous investment but also a somewhat practical one.

She would have to check the airtime for evening news broadcasts; if they weren't before 6:30 or so, then Chad would be able to watch and keep up with what was going on in the world beyond what was reported in the local paper, and to see television footage of it happening instead of reading an article with maybe a single picture attached. She knew this little screen had the potential to be a gold mine for the entire family.

And for herself? Well, she hadn't thought that far. But since she was at home most of the day anyways, she figured there was a good chance that she'd have time to catch a program every now and then. She would have to ask Mrs. Miller what the older woman liked to watch.

If nothing else, that screen on a cabinet would make their home seem a little more well-to-do as far as concerned guests, or at least less behind the times. A quiet boost in dignity of the Cartwright household, mainly for her.

Bending down, she turned it on and then began to turn the knob.

Nothing yet, of course. The guys outside weren't finished yet. Just static. But in those moments even the sight of static emanating from the screen was enough to fill Stacey with excitement. Today was a new day, and tomorrow would be even better.

The American dream. She was but one of untold tens of millions in this country for whom that lofty vision was now starting to come into perfect view. Times were good, the economy was booming, and years of hard work were paying off.

There was nowhere to go from here but up...right?

* * *

**Sunday, December 11, 1955**

And with one final stroke of the hairbrush, Stacey bent down and embraced four year old Bonnie from behind, both of them facing the mirror hanging on the bathroom door.

"Look at you, all dressed up for church and pretty," she said.

That having been concluded, and eager to fix herself some toast, Stacey stepped out of the bathroom and headed towards the kitchen.

Bonnie took a second to look at herself in the mirror, old enough now to begin to be conscious of her appearance, wearing a little kid's blue dress and a faux lady's white hat, and also a very small tinge of makeup.

Emulating something that she saw somewhere, she grasped the corners of her dress and performed a somewhat mediocre curtsy.

And though she didn't know it, somebody else was watching, through her own set of eyes no less.

* * *

In his usual soothingly calm voice, the good Reverend said:

"Please turn now to 355b in the hymnal."

Everyone took a moment to find the page in their blue hard-covered copy of the "Episcopal Hymnal 1940", as did Mrs. Matthews, the organist. And then, in one unified collective voice:

"All Hail the Power of Jesus's Name!/Let angels prostrate fall;/Bring forth the royal diadem,/And crown him, crown him, crown him Lord of all!"

And with that, the music died down.

"You may be seated," Rev. Norquist said, and the members of the congregation sat down.

"Before we continue," he said, "Chad Cartwright asked us to give a word of prayer for his coworker Harvey Stone. He came down with measles a couple of days ago, but since then Chad has received word from Harvey's wife that his condition's gotten worse. He was taken to a hospital last night, and he could use some healing."

Bonnie and Gordy sat quiet(ish) on the floor next to their mother. What the older man in the back of the room was talking about they didn't know, nor particularly care. Boring grown-up stuff, of course.

This shiny wooden floor never ceased to amaze Gordy. He wanted to lick it, but he got a spanking for that last two times, so...

In comparison, the backs of the dark lacquered benches were much less reflective. They had wooden square-ish "pockets" in which the hymnals were kept when not in use.

Gordy sat up on his knees and tried to feel inside, but it was too high up/deep.

Her interest piqued by what Gordy was doing, Bonnie sat up on her knees and did the same. Being taller, she felt inside, but again she was too short so she crouched up a little bit so as to extend her reach downwards. She felt the bottom and took out a small paper wrapper of something, crumpled up and with something squishy inside. She began to uncrumple it when-

*smack*

"No," Stacey scolded, forcing open Bonnie's hand and taking the dirty gum wrapper away.

Her hand stinging from having been swatted (not all that hard, but quite from the perspective of a young child), Bonnie was just about ready to cry.

And then:

_Are you okay_?

Sniffling, she looked around. It was clearly a fellow kid's voice. A boy's.

It wasn't Gordy. He could barely speak yet. No, this voice was clear and able as hers.

So who was it?

Curiosity overrode her sadness, and she calmed down.

Was it a kid sitting in another pew? Because besides Gordy there were none on this row.

A mystery indeed.

* * *

He was shaken back to his reality by the thuddening sound of the heavy door creaking open, having been unlocked by whoever was on the other side.

It was not a very large room, though it was reasonably large so far as a young child was concerned, and spacious enough, considering that there was nothing in there save a mat and covering situated at the corner of the room. The room was disproportionately tall for its width and length.

When the man entered, he immediately stood out. He was tall and well-groomed, with some war medals pinned to the upper left side of his chest.

He was an elderly man. His hair was long and grey, his face wrinkled, and his glorious mustache suggesting a kind of deep profundity that may or may not have actually been there. Oh, and he walked with a cane.

In his other hand he held something. He gave it to Nobutaro.

Knowing straight away what it was, Nobutaro took a lick of the lollipop.

The man leaned against a corner of the wall, and sat down. Nobutaro stood next to him, and the two looked each other eye to eye.

"Hello," the man said.

Silence.

"Can you understand me?"

The man shook his head. "Nevermind. Dumb question. It's not like you were born in this room. You can call me Mr. Suzuki."

Silence.

"And what's your name?"

"I dun know."

Intrigued, the man's eye brows curled. "You don't know your own name?"

"The monks called me boy. Is that my name?"

Mr. Suzuki chuckled. "No, that is not your name, though you're right, you are a boy."

"What is my name?"

The man thought about it for a second, and then:

"Ah, that's right. It was...Nobutaro, I believe."

"Nobutaro, I believe?"

The man shook his head. "Nobutaro. Say it after me."

"Nobutaro."

"There you go. Your name is Nobutaro. How does it feel, knowing the name that your mother gave you?"

"Mother."

Mr. Suzuki nodded. "Everyone has a mother. Not everybody knows their mother, but I can assure you everybody has one. Even you, Nobutaro."

Nobutaro took another lick of the lollipop.

"Mr. Suzuki, can I go home?"

"Home? Where is that? Where is your home?"

After a moment's thought Nobutaro shrugged. "I dunno."

"That's what I thought. You don't have a home. You know it as well as I do: the monks didn't like you. If there's somewhere where nobody likes you, then you can't call that place home, right?"

"Well, by that same logic," he admitted, "I doubt you could call this place home either. The guard at the door doesn't care about you, nor does the person who brings you food and water. Maybe they have pity for you, but that's not the same thing. Now then, I have a question for you."

He paused for a moment, thinking about how to phrase it. "Are you lonely?"

Nobutaro shrugged. "Maybe. There's this girl, but she doesn't talk to me."

Having gotten something very close to the answer he desired, Mr. Suzuki said: "Tell me about this girl."

"Her name is Bonnie. She's a kid like me."

"Bonnie? Does she come here?"

Nobutaro shrugged. "I imagine her and I see her. Like I see you right now. I go with her everywhere."

"But she doesn't talk to you back?"

The young boy shook his head. "She doesn't like me."

"And what makes you say that?"

"I tried talking to her. She won't answer."

"I see. Have you tried introducing yourself?"

"What's that?"

Mr. Suzuki smiled. "Have you tried telling her hello, and then telling her your name?"

"No."

"Well, you should. I think you'll find that she does like you, and I hope the two of you become best friends."

Nobutaro smiled. "Best friends. Yes, I would like that."

"I think she would like that too."

He stood up, straining his body. "Well, I'd better get going."

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Can I come with you?"

"No. You can't. Try talking to Bonnie. I'll be back soon, and I'll expect you to tell me how that goes."

He went up to the door, knocked, and gave a verbal command to the guard, who re-opened the door and let the old man back out, upon which the door closed shut again, leaving Nobutaro once more to himself.

* * *

"I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the...

A mere moment later, it had happened. Her head and body were submerged under freezing cold water. Water filled her mouth, and, unable to breathe, she began writhing in terror, as tiny as she had been at the time. It was easily the most horrifying experience in all of her existence up until that point.

And then, the strong hands that had held her up, which had betrayed her confidence and trust to the water, took her back up as quickly and suddenly as she'd gone down to begin with.

As she lied there shrieking, nobody came to her defense. Rather, all that she could make out was a loud noise (clapping and cheering).

What kind of madness was this world into whose cruel embrace she'd been wrought?

That was what he wanted to know. Because as she suffered, so did he. He felt it, the exact same pain and terror. He could hear them applauding. He waited for somebody to help him, but it didn't happen.

He was not that much older than her. Maybe by a few months. And in that moment both felt just as confused and scared.

He became cognizant shortly after the fact that the pain he felt was not just his own. There was somebody else out there. That other person, a barely conscious lifeform, not cognizant of gender or of specifics of personal identity. It just was. And it was upset.

Sociopathy is commonly regarded as an unexplained wickedness ingrained unfortunately in the hearts of a few.

That is not an accurate assessment, however: it is, rather, a failure of proper development from childhood, or at least a regression to a pre-developed state onset by consistent modes of behavior not conducive to healthy relationships with other people.

By definition, then, very young children are usually or frequently sociopaths. But normally they grow out of it, as they develop empathy and conscience (though to get to that point a healthy respect for deterrent measures exercised by authority figures often needs to be instilled first, through means less than savory). It will take some time before this happens. Some couple of years. Because of course they cannot directly feel the consequences their actions have on others, in the stead for the learned virtue of empathy.

But not Nobutaro. He was only a couple of months old, but he learned this lesson on that day. Because her pain and sorrow was his own. It only made rational and instinctual sense, from that point on, to show the same kind of regard for her wellbeing as he would for his own.

At first, it was a target-specific kind of empathy. Only for that one person whose pain and joy he felt. He would gradually move past that entirely, but for the time being that later matter is not particularly relevant. Suffice to say, he grew up a little on that day, the day of Bonnie Cartwright's christening, November 1, 1951.

At first there wasn't a lot to see. And eventually, when he learned to walk, he was being incorporated more and more into the demands and rigors of temple life. In between meditation and chores, he didn't have a lot of time to spend on Bonnie, who was just beginning to venture out and expand her horizons.

Eventually, she was living a vigorous and happy life, as a four or so year old without a care in the world. And he began to pay more attention. As he went about his day, he tried to make time to take a look at what she was doing, how she was feeling. When he was meditating, especially, he could retreat lay content in one spot, and retreat from his own self and let himself be enraptured in the world as she saw it every waking moment.

And it was a very lively, welcoming place, beyond the tall, imposing walls of the temple in occupied Japan where he lived.

It wasn't enough to dream of that place. He wanted to go there. Or at least, to some place like it. Which was why he was elated when the strange man interrupted his dull routine and took his out, and led him into the back of a car.

And it drove him away, far away from the temple. To where, he had no earthly idea.

But it wasn't a home. It was a dungeon. A dark, cold, miserable dungeon that made him actually miss the temple.

But it wasn't all bad. Now he had all the time in the world. With nobody to interrupt him as he dreamed...

In the daily dream that he dreamed, the people spoke with each other. They held conversations. They were friends. They were families. They were strangers who greeted each other heartily. Everywhere, people were always talking.

At first, he couldn't understand what they were saying. But, little by little, their words became clear to him. He himself, however, was not a participant in any of these conversations. He never so much as said "hello" to anyone else. Why did he need to?

But now, for the first time he found himself wanting to talk to somebody within that dream. More specifically, he wanted to talk to the pretty girl he saw in the mirror getting ready for church. The girl through whose eyes he'd always seen, and through whose ears he'd always heard, and through whose tongue he'd tasted yummy food, and through whose nose he smelled yummy smells, and through whose head he felt the softness of a pillow. She was his vision, and so much more, always. Without her there was no dream.

Sometimes she would be hurt by something. And as every person is not only their own advocate for the wrongness of their own suffering, but also their own comforter, he rushed to her side every time. And he spoke to her then. He'd done that plenty of times.

But she never spoke to him back. Why was that?

Could he not speak to the people in the dream? He didn't understand that idea. But more importantly, what he didn't understand was that, as his empathetic response to her suffering was so similar to her own thoughts on and response to the matter, and because he did not amplify his voice so that it was actually audible to her, she interpreted his presence simply as a manifestation of her own thoughts. That is to say, she did not know that she wasn't alone within the confines of her own head.

But because Nobutaro did not understand that, he could only interpret her cold shoulder the same way that he did the less than friendly reception that the monks had given him: it was because she disliked him. That was his conclusion.

He didn't understand, why people didn't like him. Was it because he talked too much? People had told him that often. But it seemed to him that other people talked more than he did, and those people were liked well enough. Did the girl not like him because he talked too much?

Was that really the reason? If so, how could talking to her get her to like him?

What the kind man suggested, that he introduce himself to her...he'd seen people within the dream do it. So if it was a matter of introductions, was the problem simply that...

He was still a stranger to her. More than that, actually. Until she spoke to him back, until they could call each other friends, maybe she was still a stranger to him as well.

He had to say hello. He had to say it as loud as he could, both to be sure that she could really hear him, over the space that separated them, and so that if she could hear him already then she couldn't ignore him.

Hello. And...Nice to meet you.

* * *

**Saturday, December 24, 1955**

It was getting late.

But it was pretty late, about 7:40, when the call came in. Chad and Stacey were getting the kids ready for bed, the call came in. It was from Gay.

He and several of their policeman colleagues, alongside, of course, Harvey's wife, were down at the hospital where Harvey had been admitted. What started out as a case of the measles had by now turned into full-blown pneumonia, a condition that could be easily quite deadly for somebody his age. The orderlies said he probably didn't have much time left. This could very well be his last night.

He said for Chad to come, and to bring Stacey as well, as he figured Mrs. Stone could use a fellow woman to help her through the night, and especially a woman who was also a police officer's wife. And with nobody to watch the kids, they had to come too by default.

At the orderly's insistence, Bonnie and Gordy did not follow their parents into the room where the sick people were. Instead they were told to sit quietly in the waiting room, garbed in their pajamas.

Oldie music (1930s, mostly) was playing softly in the background. About nine other seats were filled, showing that medical emergencies cared not for the hour. There was a calendar on the wall that showed a fanciful drawing of a beach and palm trees.

Gordy yawned and leaned back against the wooden wall behind him, slouching.

And then, without regard for the fact that his sister was seated smack in the middle of the bench that they were both seated on, he leaned sideways and lied down, forcing Bonnie to scoot over.

Bonnie looked at the clock on the wall, far less ornate than the grandfather clock at home but practical enough. She huffed in frustration, because she couldn't read a clockface. She'd seen grown-ups do it but she couldn't do the same. So she had no idea how late it was. She just knew she should've been fast asleep by now in her own bed but for whatever reason she and Gordy had been dragged all the way out here.

A few feet away there was a _Time_ magazine situated on a low table. She could hardly read, but maybe there would be pictures she could look at.

She got up when-

_Hello_!

Startled (and letting out a surprised yelp), she looked across the room. As with the last time, she didn't see any other kid beside Gordy.

But this time she wasn't going to just shrug it off.

"Where are you?" she asked.

_Here! I'm right here_!

She ran out the front door and into the dark parking lot, lit up by a single flickering yellow street bulb.

"Where? I don't see you!" she said, frantic.

_Turn_ _around_!

She turned around. "Inside? Are you inside? I didn't see you in there!"

_No, I'm not inside! I'm with you_!

"What?"

_I'm with you! I'm wherever you are_!

There was a pause.

_I go with you everywhere. You don't know_?

"Know what?"

_That I go with you everywhere_.

"I don't know you. I don't know who you are."

_My name is Nobutaro_.

"Butt tar?"

Nobutaro started giggling. _No, it's Nobutaro_!

Bonnie starting giggling as well. "Butt tar?"

And they just stood there, laughing their silly heads off, in the dark.

"Hey."

One of the orderlies stepped outside. "You can't be out here. Come inside."

"Okay..."

Bonnie followed the nurse inside and sat back down.

She sat there, silent, for a minute, and then:

"My name is Bonnie Cartwright. Nice to meet you, bu-

She couldn't finish while keeping a straight face. "I'll get it right one day. So you're my imaginary friend?"

_I'm not imaginary_, he said, _but I'll be your imaginary friend if you'll be mine_.

"Deal."

Harvey passed away later that night, and Gay became Chad's permanent partner on the Broadway police force. Bonnie woke up every morning from then on knowing that it was the start of yet another day she could be spending with the boy who she eventually settled on calling "Tarokun", as that was in accordance with the honorific that the abbott of the temple had addressed him by during his several-year stay there.

On that night, the two got the best Christmas present that anybody could ask for. And those days seemed like they would last forever.

* * *

("Be Thou My Vision" by Kalafina, feat. Yuki Kajiura, instrumentals in "Celtic" style)

_Bi thusa mo shuile a ri mhor na nduil_

_Lion thusa mo bheatha, mo cheadfai's mo stuaim_

_Bi thusa i m'aigne gach oiche's gach la_

_Im chodladh no im dhuiseacht lion me le do gra_

_Bi thusa mo threoru i mbriathar is i mbeart_

_Fan thusa go deo liom is coinnigh me ceart_

_Glac curam mar athair is eist le mo ghui_

_Is tabhair domhsa ait conai istigh i do chroi_

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	3. Chapter 3

**An ufotable production**

**Monday, May 20, 1957**

Having spent all day working in an overheated factory (that produced paper) with questionable air quality, Mason Schneider, age 31, thought it felt quite nice to step out into the cool, refreshing air of the night.

It would've been a little past 9 PM. That was usually the time he got out, and tonight didn't seem either overly long or overly short, so...

He saw his car. It'd been sitting in that spot since he came in at 10 in the morning. It waited there faithfully for him all that time. Like a loyal dog.

Unlike his dog, who ran away from home just a week ago and hadn't been seen since, leaving its owner, Mason, heartbroken. He'd had several relationships with women, but none of them lasted very long, on account of lingering issues from his days in the war. He was there on the Western Front of Europe during the war, and it really messed him up for life. Throughout that, his dog had remained by his side for the roughly seven years that he had her, whose name was Trixie.

But alas, even Trixie had abandoned him now. All that he had left was his car. Surely it wouldn't let him down.

He opened the driver door and got inside. It should be noted that in those days cars did not come with automatic sensors, and so the interior lights did not flash on when he opened the door. Likewise, the large majority of cars were not equipped with car alarms to deter burglars.

So he did not notice that the corner right window had been shattered.

Sighing, he started up the car.

And then he felt something coming down from the top of his head, but his kneejerk reaction was pathetic enough that it managed to come down successfully to his neck.

And then he felt it tighten: a rope or wire around his neck.

"Don't move a muscle."

Shaking, he tried to turn his head slightly to see who his assailant was.

"I mean it! Don't move. Just do what I say and you'll live to see tomorrow."

"Am I being robbed?" he asked, his heart starting to race.

"Maybe. Maybe not. What you do know already is that I've got a thin but sturdy wire resting on your throat. You wanna fight back? Try to overpower me? Sure. You can try that. But be rest assured you'll only have a couple of seconds before you lose consciousness, and then you'll be dead. I could strangle you, just like that."

For emphasis that person pulled back, just for a second, before relaxing again.

Mason's hands began trembling. "D-Don't kill me. Please. I am begging you."

"I won't. Not as long as you do exactly what you're told to do."

"I-I will. I'll do as I'm told. I promise. What is it?"

"Alright. Back out and get onto the main road."

Trying to reassert control over his shakey hands, Mason managed to do just that. A minute later they were going down the nighttime highway.

"Alright, good," Mason's mysterious assailant said. "Now, as soon as that turn comes up I want you to pull into the opposite lane."

"We're not going this way?"

"No. Now, do it!"

Mason complied.

"Alright. It's going to be maybe two miles up ahead. When I tell you to, you'll turn right. It'll take you onto a backroad. Then I'll need you to pull over to the first tire shop that you see. You should come across it pretty quick after you make that turn."

Eventually, they arrived at their destination.

All the lights were off, as the tire shop had closed by now and all of its employees had gone home.

Mason parked the car. "O-Okay. See? I-I did what you asked."

"Yes, you did. Thank you. You've been very cooperative. Now, there's just one more thing that I need you to-

Instead of finishing, that person suddenly pulled back on the wire as hard as he/she could.

Mason began convulsing violently, pulling his arm back, trying to grab onto his assailant, then trying to open his car door and get out.

But his assailant stuck his/her leg onto the back of the seat for support and pulled back, and then with both legs, forcing Mason's head back against the headrest.

Mason's unsteady arm tried to reach forwards, towards the partially opened door, for whatever reason. But then he went limp.

And so did his whole body.

His assailant continued to pull back hard even as he/she was faced with no further resistance, to ensure that enough time elapsed for strangulation to fully occur.

Finally, satisfied with the grisly work of their hands, they let go.

(Author's note: Here I'm using "they", "them", and "their" in the singular gender-neutral sense, so as to not give hint about that person's identity.)

They got out of the car and dragged the lifeless corpse of Mason Schneider out.

Then he/she reached into his/her pocket and pulled out his handy blade. A Ka-Bar knife. Military-grade.

(Author's Note: I'd rather not describe the following mutilation of the body in gruesome detail, and I'm sure you'd rather not read about it. Suffice to say, that person used the knife to pierce both of the victim's wrists, and then both of his ankles, and then to stab his side above his right hip. Then he/she spread the body out onto the top of the car and posed it as though the body had been crucified, with arms stretched out and ankles crossed. Then, with the victim's blood he/she wrote the letters "I R N I" onto the windshield above the body.)

After that was done, they scraped the knife against the grass nearby, to wipe much of the blood off and keep it from dripping further. Then they wiped it against their own pants, just to be sure, before stashing it in their coat pocket.

Then they reached into the car, turned it off, and took the keys out. The headlights died down.

And then they began to walk away from the scene, knowing that they had a long journey ahead of them back to their car, which was parked in a conspicuous location about halfway between here and home. It would take them several hours to get back there, but they had all night, of course.

They'd never done this before. Not even close. This was their first time murdering somebody in cold blood.

It did not feel good at all. In fact, in that moment they were overcome with an inconsolable terror. They wanted to vomit right then and there. What they'd just done flew smack in the face of everything they believed in. And if they were ever caught, their life would be over, both figuratively and literally.

They would have to get over it, of course. Because the person who would come to be known as the Stigmata Killer would have to do this nine more times. The devil would not be satisfied until presented with nine more sacrifices.

That was the original deal, after all: ten lives in exchange for his/her measly one. Maybe he/she was a coward for making that deal in the first place. They certainly felt like one, and worse. But regardless, they'd gotten what they wanted so desperately, so it was pretty much a done deal at this point. There was nothing left save to uphold their end of the bargain.

And then it'll all be over, they thought, trying to hold it together and keep from snapping right then and there.

* * *

**Also Sprach Zarathustra: III: Looking Glass**

* * *

**Monday, January 9, 1956**

Trying to slip it on, it didn't feel right.

The mitts weren't pulled back all the way over all fingers.

Grimacing, Stacey put in a little more effort, and then finally:

"...Done."

Clad in boots, thick pants, a heavy coat, mitts, a scarf, and a knit wool cap, Bonnie practically had to waddle to turn around.

Then Stacey handed her a lunchbox with a small handle.

"Don't lose this," she said. "If you do you'll go hungry at lunchtime. It's got a peanut butter sandwich. You like those."

4 year old Bonnie did like peanut butter, she had to admit.

It also had an apple, but it was granny smith (green, sour apple) so Stacey wasn't sure whether Bonnie would eat it. And it had a small paper carton of milk. Something to drink.

And with that, Bonnie was ready for her first day of kindergarten.

Or, at least, she figured that she was.

* * *

Within minutes Bonnie had gotten on the yellow schoolbus, of that same timeless, ubiquitous design that generation after generation of American schoolchildren and teenagers would become much more familiar with than they would've liked.

"_London Bridge is falling down; Falling down, falling down; London Bridge is falling down; My fair lady!_"

As they sang, the boys and girls stretched out their arms across the middle aisle to form an imaginary arch/tunnel, through which the young pretty schoolteacher passed under, virtually crawling. A strange game that nonetheless entertained and, perhaps more importantly, taught the basic values of group participation, though the degree to which the students sitting close to the windows were able to participate is questionable.

_What is a Lundun Bridge_? Nobutaro asked.

"It is a bridge that falls down so cars can't go over."

_Huh_?

"I seed (saw) it on TV," Bonnie explained, so sure of herself. "Every day the bridge falls down so that the cars can't cross the bridge. Then at night the bridge raises up again."

_Why do it do that_?

"Because the cars are heavy," Bonnie explained. "They'll break the bridges back so it don't want to let them over it."

_Nuh uh, cars cross bridges_.

"Not all bridges," Bonnie said. "Some bridges are big and strong and others are small and weak so they can't let cars over. Its called a Lundun Bridge."

From his cell room across the ocean Nobutaro nodded. _That is what a Lundun Bridge is. I know now. Thank you_.

"Your welcome."

"Who're ya talking to?" The boy seated next to Bonnie asked.

"Tarocoon."

"Who?"

"Tarocoon."

"A racoon?"

Bonnie laughed. "No, Tarocoon! Hes imaginary."

_I'm not imaginary_!

"You are too!"

"I'm imaginary?" the boy asked.

"No, Tarocoon is imaginary!"

"Tarocoon is your imaginary friend."

"Yes!"

He nodded. "Hello Tarocoon."

_Hello_.

"Tarocoon said hello too."

The teacher passed by his row and he turned around, having lost interest in the conversation he was having just now.

* * *

After having arrived at the school and taking off/hanging up their coats, and being settled into the classrooms, they started the day by learning the Pledge of Allegiance, as last revised in 1954 to include the words "Under God", while placing their hands over their hearts as had replaced the Bellamy Salute (too close for comfort to the Nazi salute, though it far predated such) in 1942.

Then the teachers began the daunting task of trying to teach these little kids the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic.

Bonnie had trouble learning to hold a pen right, preferring to clasp it with her whole hand, which made writing her ABCs difficult.

So that something would get done, the teachers finally gave her permission to write big and expend a large number of papers, and to use a crayon to make the task a little more interesting, and things moved a little faster after that. By the end of the day she'd practiced 3 letters.

It wasn't a very pleasant experience for Bonnie, so she was glad whenever they were afforded recess.

Hanging upside down on a jungle gym above the surface of tiny pebbles covering the grounds of the play area (for which it was convenient that she was wearing jeans and which her mother had anticipated), she decided to raise the question:

"You do it this time."

_Huh_?

"When we go back inside you do it. I don't want to."

_Your letters_?

"Yeah."

It didn't look particularly interesting to him, nor had he paid much attention while she was being instructed.

_I don't want to_.

"Aww, pretty please?"

_I said I don't want to_!

"But I said please!"

It was true. She had said please.

He groaned for dramatic effect. "Alright, alright."

* * *

Bonnie took her seat.

"Alright, Bonnie, I'm going to need you to draw the letter A," the male instructor said.

_Letter A. Which one is that_?

Bonnie pointed to a large paper with an A crudely drawn with a crayon.

He felt the joints in her arm. Could he actually move them?

He gave it a try. But it looked like it wouldn't budge.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

_I'm trying! But it won't go_!

He was starting to really get frustrated. The whole body wouldn't move.

_Grrrrr, come on, move it alread_-

*vreeng*

And suddenly it all came to life.

He looked around. Bonnie's head swiveled to the side.

Then he wanted to turn to the other side, and Bonnie's head immediately complied.

Now this is more like it, he thought.

He was seated comfortably in the wooden bench, his/her arms resting against the short table.

He'd never been able to exert control before. This was definitely a first.

"_Boni, durao da reta ei, purizu_."

"Eh? _Nandeshou_?" he asked, looking up at the teacher.

"_Wato? Durao da reta ei! A wonto akusu yu agin! Boni! A yu risenin tu mi_?"

It was then that Nobutaro realized he couldn't understand a word this man was saying.

"_BONI! DONTO IGUNO MI!_"

Freaking out, and not liking having been yelled at when he didn't even know what it was he did wrong, Nobutaro stood up and walked away from the table.

What do I do? What do I do? he thought, starting to panic. I don't know what's going on. I can't understand anyb-

_Draw the letter A_!

"Huh?"

_He just wants you to draw the letter A_, Bonnie said. _Why aren't you doing it_?

Calming down, Nobutaro returned to his/her seat and grabbed the crayon and paper, exercising a much better hand position than Bonnie had.

He studied the A that'd already been drawn and then tried to emulate it. Luckily for him, it was Capital A so it was a lot easier than it otherwise would've been.

A diagonal line running up right. Then a diagonal line running up left.

They didn't converge properly, but the one Bonnie drew wasn't any better so he figured that was the way it was supposed to look.

Then he drew a line connecting them roughly in the middle.

Done.

_Good job_.

"_Doumo_," he said. Thanks.

"_Ai donto onasutanyu,_" the teacher said. "_Taku nomaru._"

Nobutaro just sat there quietly, not sure what to do next. He decided he'd try drawing the next letter.

Nobutaro grabbed a paper and brought it in closer.

_No, that is C_.

He grabbed another one.

_That is B, yeah. Do that_.

He turned the paper that he'd drawn on over and began drawing the B.

Soon enough it was done.

"_Gudo_," the teacher said. "_Yu mubin machu fazuta nao._"

Not that Nobutaro understood a word of that either, but in any case he moved on to C.

And he did it, like a charm.

"Good," the teacher said, "now you can rejoin the other kids."

Nobutaro didn't understand that, of course, so once again he just sat there.

He tried to see if there was another letter left, but there wasn't.

Getting frustrated, the teacher pulled him/her up, grabbed his/her hand, and took him to the round circle where the other kids were sitting on the floor Indian style (cross legged).

"_Hanase_!" Nobutaro protested.

But once he was there, he sat down.

"_Da wirusu on da bosu go uraon dan raon_," the kids chanted, "_a...taru...da taon!_"

The female teacher put aside her ukulele. "Very good, now, who's heard of a game called Duck Duck Goose?"

As he watched the strange children's ritual unfold before him in an unintelligible language, Nobutaro found Indian style to be an uncomfortable position to maintain so he changed positions so he was sitting with his legs in front of him and his arms behind him supporting his weight.

"_Daku, daku...GUSU_!"

A single boy was standing. He made a lap around the outside of the circle and then he tapped a girl on the head and said "Goose". She stood up and chased after him.

The boy outran her, made a lap, and then sat down where she was sitting.

Now the girl was the one standing and she walked around.

"_GUSU!_"

She tapped Nobutaro on the head.

By observing he understood that he was supposed to get up and chase her in a circle.

Because of the way that he was sitting, however, he got up slowly. He walked maybe a foot ahead when the girl came from behind and sat down at his place.

Oh boy, he thought. I don't know if I'll be doing this right.

He put his hand on a girl's head.

"_Daku._"

He walked up to the boy to her right and placed his/her hand on his head.

"_Daku_."

This was fun. Like he was giving everybody a name, except they all had the same name.

By this time the other kids were starting to murmur among themselves about Bonnie's strange pronunciation of duck.

"Daku," he said to a third kid.

And then to a fourth kid:

"_Goose_!" he proclaimed, actually pronouncing it right.

He ran. He ran as fast as he could. The boy didn't have a chance. Nobutaro was just about to make it when the boy turned around, ran at him, and tagged him.

Huh? he thought. You can do that? No fair!

The teacher stood up, said something to the cheating boy in a scolding tone, and in the middle of the strange situation Nobutaro simply plopped down and was promptly seated.

* * *

Bonnie looked left, and then right. Then she looked down.

She was wearing raggedy clothes. Quite skinny too.

She was in a dimly lit room, with a hard concrete floor and concrete walls. Some electric lights hung overhead, doing a poor job of masking the fact that it was nighttime outside.

There was a strange rectangular-shaped something that, unbeknownst to her, was the only door in and out of this dungeon.

She took a step forward. The floor felt cold on her feet.

Or, rather, his feet.

As she moved her head up and down, she realized that she didn't have long hair. She raised her hand and felt.

Short hair. So did that mean...

"I've become a boy?!" she shouted, her voice echoing in the room slightly.

"N-No, mom says girls don't become boys and boys don't become girls," she said, to no one in particular but herself.

How did she get here? Was this place still on the school grounds?

If she'd become a boy, how would that work? Would she become like dad when she grew up? What would people think?

One thing she knew for sure: she needed to get out of here.

She walked around trying to find a doorway. When she didn't find one, she then realized that she was trapped.

But hold on, she thought, if there is no door, how did I get inside here in the first place?

She remembered that Tarocoon started controlling her body, and then she was watching.

But then she had stopped paying attention and "looked away", and suddenly she was here. Wherever "here" was.

She yawned. How did she suddenly become this tired? In any case, she saw something resembling a bed in the corner of the room. How convenient.

She pulled the covers over his/herself and lied down, closing her eyes...

* * *

Nobutaro knew he was royally screwed when he tried to get hold of Bonnie and realized she was nowhere to be found, and whenever he boarded the schoolbus to return home.

Or, rather, to Bonnie's home. If he couldn't understand anyone at the school, he knew there was a good chance he wouldn't be able to understand Bonnie's mom or dad. The whole situation was sorely puzzling and as much as he wracked his brain he couldn't come up with an explanation.

Regardless, he had no idea of what would happen when this communication barrier became evident to Bonnie's parents, and he didn't want to stick around long enough to find out.

So what were his options at this point? First, he could bide for time. By this time it was clear that he was responsible for the body swap that had occurred. That meant Bonnie must've been in his body at the moment. He knew that normally he could get hold of Bonnie at any time, but she couldn't always get hold of him when she wanted. That meant it was up to whoever controlled his body to make contact. Hence, he had to wait for Bonnie.

As for why she hadn't so far, he didn't k-

Crap.

He realized that it was nighttime as far as his body was concerned. So did that mean that Bonnie fell asleep?

He knew that Bonnie's bedtime was 8:30. The time she normally woke up was around 6:30 or so.

He'd seen clocks. They had 12 numbers on them. It started counting from 1...2...3...for each hour, and then it started over after 12. He'd heard that an hour was sixty minutes.

Sixty minus thirty was...

He tried counting on his fingers.

The bus came to a stop. Bonnie's house was fast approaching.

Thirty.

Okay, he thought. What was the first number...? 8:30. So if from 8 to 9 is 60 minutes, and 8:30 is 30 minutes after 8, then there are 30 more minutes until 9. Let's see, thirty minutes and then an hour for ten...11...12...1...

Beginning to lose count, he stopped.

Thirty minutes, that's 9...ten eleven twelve is three more. Three hours thirty minutes. 1 2 3 is 3...How much did I count so far...? Three...Right. Three and a half. Bu is the same as counting. S is six. So that is...nine hours and thirty minutes. But wait, six thirty, so you add thirty minutes to nine hours thirty minutes.

Thirty plus thirty is sixty, he continued, which is an hour, so that's one hour added. Nine hours, so...

Bonnie would likely sleep for ten hours.

He didn't know how long ago she'd fallen asleep, so the easiest assumption was that she'd started "right now", beginning with when he got home and had a chance to look at a clock. Then he'd have to wait 10 hours. From there, whenever she woke up again he expected her to contact him. And then they'd figure out how to switch back.

The bus came to a halt. It was Nobutaro's stop.

He stood up and stepped out of the bus and onto his/Bonnie's driveway. Her house was right in front of him.

How am I going to keep them from finding out for ten hours, he thought.

He shivered. Clearly he couldn't run away. Not in this weather. And especially not when he'd forgotten his/her coat at school. So there was no option but to come inside.

He walked several yards forward, opened the door, stepped inside...and closed the door behind him.

He went straight for the grandfather clock in the living room.

It was 2:45. Ten hours would be...

He stood there for a long while, until:

"_Ju-ni-ji_," he said. Twelve o'clock. At night.

That was nothing for him, of course. He lived in a time zone 14 hours ahead of Wichita. That meant when Bonnie got up it was roughly 8:30 PM for him, and that when she went to bed it was 10:30 AM the next morning, upon which he'd go to bed. However, his circadian rhythm had long adjusted to Bonnie's schedule, or at least he had become used to sleeping in the daytime and relying upon Bonnie's daytime alertness and vigor to keep himself active and alert whenever she was awake.

There was a difference this time, of course. He'd be in Bonnie's room, alone in his thoughts and in his surroundings. Her body would get tired long before 12, so he'd be feeling it. Her bed was comfortable so he could easily fall asleep, upon which they'd "miss" their opportunity to meet up and switch back until the next morning.

He didn't know whether she'd have fallen back asleep by that time, so his best bet was to not fall asleep tonight.

He headed to Bonnie room and looked around.

There had to be something in here that he could use to amuse himself until past 12. Some toys? Picture books?

He had to keep in mind, however, that whatever it was he did he had to do it quietly. The rest of the family would be fast asleep.

*creak*

Stacey entered the room and looked down at Bonnie.

"Huh, where's your coat?" she asked, unintelligible to Nobutaro's ears. "Well, nevermind. How was your first day of school?"

Having no idea what she was saying, Nobutaro was starting to panic when he realized that there was one catch-all phrase in the English language that Bonnie used often, which could be used in response to virtually anything. It was:

"_OK_."

Satisfied by this answer, Stacey left the room and Nobutaro breathed a sigh of relief.

* * *

*knock knock knock*

Chad opened the door.

Mr. and Mrs. Miller came inside.

Standing behind them was their oldest son, Kevin, who was in his early 20s and wearing army dress, along with that dorky conical hat that GIs wore back in the day.

"Uh, hi, Mr. Cartwright," Kevin said nervously.

Chad nodded. "Kevin. Please, come inside."

The young man did as he was told and Chad closed the door.

Instead of picking the seat closest to him Kevin sat facing the front door and the windowsill above the kitchen counter, with his back facing the wall behind him.

Chad picked up on that little detail right away. It could've been sheer coincidence, but he knew that that thing was a more likely reason.

Kevin seemed a lot different than how he and Stacey remembered him. He used to be a unruly, disrespectful punk whose parents were glad to see him get sent off to boot camp as soon as he had turned 18 in early 1952. Now, well, the army had changed him. Korea had changed him.

He had six weeks left before his contract expired, upon which he'd become a civilian. In preparation for that transition he'd been recently transferred to a base in the local area.

For supper tonight they were having rice and crowder peas with sweet potato casserole.

"Kevin, you remember Bonnie?" Mrs. Miller asked.

He nodded. "The little kid you were always babysitting back in the day. Yeah."

He looked at her. "How old is she now?"

"She's four, to be five in August," Stacey said. "Today was her first day of kindergarten. Bonnie, why don't you tell us how your day was?"

Suspecting by the inflection of Mrs. Cartwright's voice that he was being asked some kind of question, Nobutaro just said:

"_OK_."

It got him off the hook earlier. Maybe now?

They waited for her a couple of seconds.

"...Well?" Mr. Miller said.

Silence.

"I-I guess she isn't feeling very talkative right now," Stacey said, and they dropped the matter. "Who wants some more casserole?"

She saw that Gordie's plate was finished. "Already? Boy, you're a fast eater."

Two year old Gordie smiled big and she refilled his plate.

"Who's the other kid?" Kevin asked.

"This is Gordie, our son," Chad said.

Kevin waved at the boy, in sort of an effort to get his attention, but Gordie didn't budge.

"He's shy," Stacey said. "So, um, Kevin, what do you think you want to do after you get out of the army?"

Kevin shrugged. "I haven't decided that yet. Figured it shouldn't be too hard to find work in this economy...These rice and beans are amazing, by the way, Miss Cartwright."

"Really? You should thank your mother, then. She let me borrow her crock pot so I could make this."

He nodded. "Yeah. I haven't had a home-cooked meal like this in a long time. You should try some of the stuff they serve up in the mess halls on base. A lot of it tastes like pencil shavings. I don't know what it is they do to it, but it's like the goal of the cooks is to murder the food."

That elicited some chuckles.

Stacey looked at Chad. "Speaking of murder, is there something you want to tell Kevin?"

Chad gave her a blank stare for about two seconds and then recalled what it was. "Right. Um, so, my former partner died of the measles a little while back. They haven't gotten around to finding anyone to replace him yet, so we're a little shorthanded. I was thinking, a guy like you, army experience, I think you just might be what we're looking for."

"Huh?"

"The local police," Mr. Miller said. "Mr. Cartwright's offering you a job."

"W-Well, it's not up to me," Chad said, "but I think I might be willing to vouch for you, if you're willing to apply for the position. Provided they don't hire someone else by that time."

Kevin nodded. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind. And, I mean, I don't know, it sounds like might be a good change of pace. This is a pretty safe town. No crime, just speeding drivers, town drunks, and so forth."

"Well, you never know for sure what tomorrow will bring," Chad cautioned. "But I'm glad to hear you say that."

And on it went, until eventually the guests left. Stacey cleared the table and then helped Gordie and "Bonnie" get ready for bedtime.

Nobutaro retired for the night to Bonnie's room, to try and stay awake as long as he could. How long this would take, he had no clue.

And as it turned out, it was a mere 10:14 when it happened.

* * *

The door didn't just creak quietly, but rather loudly. What you'd expect from a heavy metal door designed for a submarine.

Bonnie was awoken by the sound.

She looked left and then right, and then remembered what'd happened to her the night before.

What time is it? she thought.

She still felt kind of tired. But she got up to see who the person entering the room was.

"_Ohayo, Taro-kun_."

"_You know who Tarocoon is_?" Bonnie asked.

"_Hmm? English?_" the man, Hajime Suzuki, wondered. "_Who are you?_"

"_My name is Bonnie Grace Cartwright,_" she said, with a hint of pride in her voice rooted in her knowing her full name.

"_Bonnie,_" he repeated. "_Yes, Taro-kun told me about you. How do you do?_"

"_Can I go home?_"

He started at her, confused.

"Please c_an I go home?_" she repeated, sure to mind her manners this time as her mother told her to do with strangers.

"_Where do you live?_" he asked.

"_I live on 121 Harper Drive,_" she said proudly.

"_In Wichita, Kansas?_"

"_No Wichita is over the bridge._"

"_The...bridge?_"

"_The bridge yes!_"

"_...How old are you?_"

"_I'm four!_"

He wasn't entirely sure whether to accept the situation at face value. Nobutaro could've just made all of this up. However, for him to be so fluent in English...

It wasn't impossible, of course. Perhaps there were English speakers who frequently visited the temple, such as American GIs.

But he decided he was going to step out on a limb and believe in what he was observing right in front of him.

"_Do you know where you are, Bonnie? Where this place is?_"

"_No. Where is it?_"

He grinned. "_I guess that makes you lost, then. I'm not going to tell you where you are, but I think I can help you get back home. Back to your own body._"

Her eyes lit up. "_You really mean it?_"

He nodded. "_I don't know for sure whether this'll work, but..._"

There was a pause.

"_First, since you're in Taro-kun's body,_" he said, "_does that mean he's in yours?_"

Bonnie nodded. "_He is. I asked him to take over to draw letters for me because I don't want to._"

Draw letters, he repeated mentally. The cause of this predicament is really such a petty thing?

"_Alright then,_" he said. "_That means he took over your body from the body that you're in now. That means you should have the power too, to take back control over your body, and Taro-kun will be returned to his. The next step is for you to talk to him._"

"_Talk to him?_"

"_Yes. Right now. Do you know how to do that?_"

She shook her head.

He sighed. "_Okay, let's see..._"

His eyes lit up. "_How about you try reaching out to him?_"

"_Huh?_"

"_Sit down, close your eyes, and think as hard as you can about Taro-kun, and only Taro-kun._"

She sat down.

She closed her eyes.

Tarocoon...

"_Try to imagine his face._"

She opened her eyes. "_I don't know what he looks like._"

Mr. Suzuki was taken aback. But then he thought about it for a moment.

"_I'm sorry,_" he said, "_but I'm going to ask you to wait here a little longer._"

"_Huh?_"

"_I'll be back soon. Then I'll help you. I promise. Just wait here until then._"

He stepped through the opened hatch, and a guard in olive drab uniform sealed it closed behind him.

* * *

Minutes passed. When Bonnie realized she needed to go to the bathroom, she had her first (and hopefully only) experience with the rusty and smelly chamber pot that'd been left for Nobutaro to do his business in, and which the guards left in the room all of the time, only coming in to change it out intermittently (that didn't happen during her stay in his body this time).

After that, she paced around, bored.

Come on, she thought. Tarocoon, where are you already?

She tried to think of him, not so much his appearance (as that was not really possible), but the impression that he'd left on her through their interactions.

*whumm*

It turned on like a switch.

Disorienting at first, Bonnie realized that she was in her own bedroom, sitting on the floor with some-

"Are you playing with my dolls?" she asked, laughing.

"T-There wasn't anything else to do," Nobutaro protested, putting them down in a hurry. "Anyways, why did you fall asleep?"

"I don't know, I was tired!" she retorted.

"Well, your body is tired so here you can sleep some more," he said. "Switch back with me."

"How do I do that?"

"Try to move your body."

She did...

And that was that.

* * *

The hatch creaked open again. Two guards entered, carrying a mirror.

Mr. Suzuki entered after they did.

He looked at the boy, whose body he believed to have been at this time controlled by the girl Bonnie.

Sitting down and leaning against the hard wall, he looked up at Mr. Suzuki. "Good morning."

Mr. Suzuki paused, realizing that he'd been addressed in Japanese. "Taro-kun?"

"Yes," he said.

"Where is Bonnie?"

"She's asleep in her body."

"Sir, where do you want this?" one of the guards asked.

Mr. Suzuki pointed to a corner of the room, and the two young men began lifting it again.

"What is that?" Nobutaro asked.

"Come," Mr. Suzuki said, instead of answering. "I'll show you."

After the guards set it down the old man and the young boy walked towards it.

It was on a stand, and so it was a little too tall for Nobutaro. In response, Mr. Suzuki pulled it forward a little bit and then turned it downwards so that it showed Nobutaro's whole body when he looked up.

"I believe you'll grow into it eventually," he said. "But anyways, that, Nobutaro, is what you look like."

Nobutaro took a good, long look at himself.

He was not at all what he thought he'd look like. There was a clear disconnect between the personality he attributed to himself and his actual physical appearance. Would he have to alter his self-perception in response to this?

No. He didn't like what he saw, so...

He turned away from the mirror. "I don't want it."

"Then don't look at it," Mr. Suzuki said. "It's in the corner. It's not bothering anything. But if you should ever change your mind, it'll be waiting for you. Right there. Your reflection."

And with that, they left Nobutaro once more all to his lonesone self.

* * *

_The days passed. I didn't think the mirror was worth mentioning to Bonnie, but over the course of our interactions I eventually let it slip._

_I was careful, you see, not to let this happen again. Because I didn't want to be stranded again. It was a scary experience. I didn't want to know what'd happen if they found out I couldn't speak their language, and indeed that I wasn't their daughter. Would they punish me? Throw me out of the house and into the cold?_

_But Bonnie, she wanted to do it again. She wanted to look into that mirror, and find out exactly what i looked like. In her words, she wanted to know what I looked like "So I can always find you if I get lost again."_

_She begged me. I refused._

_The days passed, and she continued to beg. I continued to say no._

_But finally, well, she always had a way of wearing me down, you see. I couldn't say no to her forever._

* * *

**Tuesday, February 28, 1956**

It was a special day.

For Gordie, who turned three today.

And a busy day, for his mother.

The party would be held in about four hours.

"Anyways," Stacey said with a sigh, "the balloon man won't call me back so I don't know whether he's going to show or not."

"Well, a party's a party with or without balloons," Kathy said from the other end of the line. "Don't work yourself too hard."

"I'm trying not to, but I lost the instructions for the oven roast and..."

There was a pause.

"Sooooo, where's the birthday boy?" Kathy asked. "I'd like to tell him hi."

"He's right here, actually," Stacey said. "Stacking tomato cans."

She shook her head. "Such a weird child. Anyways, I'll get him on the line in just a second."

She lifted him up, and he started to get a little bit fussy.

"Shh, shh, your aunt Kathy's on the line," she said.

She held the phone up to his ear, and:

"Heeeey there!" Kathy said, and Gordie smiled excitedly.

As that happened, from her room upstairs Bonnie sat on her bed.

"Three..."

_Two_...

"One..."

*vreeng*

Bonnie opened her eyes.

Sure enough, she was back. She stood up, looked around, and then spotted the mirror.

She walked towards it, becoming re-acquainted with the feeling of the cold floor on his/her feet.

She approached the mirror and looked into it.

And she was not prepared for what she saw.

He looked so...different. His eyes, his hair, even his nose...

(Author's Note: That's to say, he had an East Asian appearance as in contrast to that of a white person.)

Clearly he was a boy, though of course she'd already had to confirm that the hard way last time she was here. His appearance was disheveled, his shirt torn, dirt on his face and his hair unkempt. Like a prisoner in a chain gang.

She looked around. This place was...

Nobutaro's prison.

He spent every waking moment in this dungeon. When they switched bodies, that was the sole exception. If she was now about to switch back with him, then he'd be instantly returned to this place.

_Are you ready_?

After a moment's hesitation she nodded. "Yeah."

She looked into the mirror, focused on him, and made contact once more. From there it took very little effort to switch back. It wasn't anywhere near as scary or unpredictable an exercise at it'd been last time.

As she opened her eyes back in her own room, the first thought that crossed her mind was:

One day I'm going to help him.

* * *

("Be Thou My Vision" by Kalafina, feat. Yuki Kajiura, instrumentals in "Celtic" style)

_Bi thusa mo shuile a ri mhor na nduil_

_Lion thusa mo bheatha, mo cheadfai's mo stuaim_

_Bi thusa i m'aigne gach oiche's gach la_

_Im chodladh no im dhuiseacht lion me le do gra_

_Bi thusa mo threoru i mbriathar is i mbeart_

_Fan thusa go deo liom is coinnigh me ceart_

_Glac curam mar athair is eist le mo ghui_

_Is tabhair domhsa ait conai istigh i do chroi_

* * *

It had been confirmed, more or less.

The address that "Bonnie" gave existed in Broadway, Kansas. It was also confirmed that no map of Kansas or Wichita was located in Honmyo-ji temple, and that none of the present monks had ever visited there, much less that one address.

It was not a fabrication of a mischievous little boy after all.

The girl, she didn't speak Japanese. And Nobutaro later answered that he didn't speak English. Per his testimony, he couldn't understand a word anyone was saying. However, he could normally understand Bonnie.

How was that possible, whenever the two did not speak the same language?

The answer was that which Hajime Suzuki had suspected all along: willtongue.

Language, per his understanding of the term, was the tangible encoding of concept, abstraction, and ideas. At their root, however, the same ideas were being expressed even if by way of different languages which encoded said ideas through different strings of letters and sounds.

Willtongue was the phenomenon in which two people, whose hearts and souls were connected, were able to directly communicate ideas without having to pass through the often incompatible mediums of physical language (though the recipient of such a communication might encode such into his own language so that it may be better processed and comprehended by his/her brain). That meant Nobutaro would be able to effectively communicate with anyone who he connected with, regardless of how wide a cultural and historical gap there might've existed between the two otherwise.

He hadn't wasted his time on the boy after all. He was indeed the key to deciphering the inscriptions which Hajime believed held the answers he spent his adult life trying to find.

For the time being, he decided that he would let the boy's interactions with the American girl Bonnie continue. In part because he felt sorry for the crappy circumstances in which he was made to live, but also because he knew time would yield more fascinating developments and discoveries about the powers that the son of Naoko held. It was of immense scientific interest to him and his organization, if nothing else.

But eventually he would confront Nobutaro with that artifact, and make him carry out his duty to humanity. The translation of the undecipherable brass plates, written in an unknown tongue, recovered originally during the Japanese archaeological expedition to Palestine decades ago. Carbon dated to about 2900 BC, the other huge find that they'd made while there, alongside the remarkably well preserved specimen of the proposed species _homo sapiens autovorus_, both from the same dig site, which they believed to have been an ancient temple.

Just a little bit longer, and all of the pieces would fall into place. He could wait. For thousands of years man had sat in the dark, arrogantly unaware of true reality. What was a few years, or a decade? Indeed, it was a mark of the faithful that they should wait patiently, and that they should be made to wait in the first place. They would wait diligently, building up their strength from the shadows, for however long was required of them. Ten years, twenty, half a century or more...his movement would withstand the test of time. Whether he would be around to see that day of glory was irrelevant. He was a humble servant, nothing more and nothing less. Such things as pride and ambition were cast out the window when he watched helplessly as loudmouthed foreigners stormed his country and desecrated the imperial office.

What he really wanted wasn't revenge, but instead revelation. Yes. He wanted...no, he needed to know the will of the Almighty One for his generation and beyond. For the chosen few, the vanguard.

The Black Organization.

**To Be Continued**


	4. Chapter 4

**Monday, September 1, 1958**

As it turned out, Bonnie had been a little too young to be attending kindergarten (and she really stank at it as a result), so she was taken out and her parents waited for her to come of age before restarting so that she'd be where her peers were.

So now here she was. On her first day of Second Grade. She'd turned seven just yesterday, so the timing was pretty good.

She entered the classroom, spotted her usual seat, and...

Oh man.

Somebody had already taken her seat.

A girl, roughly same age as her. Long blonde curls. Dressed up nice as she was, she looked uncannily like a character Bonnie'd seen in a picture book:

Goldilocks.

_Is that...jealousy_?

"Oh you shut up," Bonnie retorted.

_Nuh uh, shut up is a bad word_.

"Be quiet," she corrected.

She walked up to the girl, who was chatting eagerly with female students seated adjacently to her on several sides. Bonnie knew who they were, of course: those girls always sat in the same spot too and she talked with them a lot during the previous school year. Which made this situation even more irritating.

She tapped her on the shoulder.

"Excuse me," she said.

The girl ignored her.

She tapped her on the shoulder again. "Excuse me."

Again, the girl ignored her and kept on chatting.

Sighing, she tapped the girl on the shoulder again when-

The girl's head pivoted around and:

"What?!" she snapped.

"Y-You're in my seat."

"Boohoo, I was here first," the girl said.

Bonnie didn't much like that girl's tone of voice, but regardless she found another seat and quickly sat down before somebody else took it.

* * *

And from then on, the girl, whose name was "Jane", sat in that one seat. If it had ended there, Bonnie probably wouldn't have given Jane much thought from that point out. Unfortunately, that was not her last negative experience with the blonde girl.

Jane Osteen's parents, as it turned out, were quite well-off. Her father was a "fixer" for the Kansas Republican Party, who played a very large role in organizing the various 1956 midterm election campaigns for the party's candidates from the state, both in congressional and gubernatorial capacities. Her mother stood to inherit a rather sizable estate one day. They lived in Broadway, and attended a Methodist church in Wichita on Sundays.

Jane was also an only child whose parents doted on her to no small degree. When you took all of this into account, combined with her young age, the most probable conclusion would be that she was a snobbish, spoiled brat.

And this conclusion was not in any way, shape, or form wrong. She and Bonnie were practically meant not to get along, from the first moment they laid eyes on each other.

* * *

**Also Sprach Zarathustra: IV: Hello Girl**

* * *

**Thursday, September 18, 1958**

F...G A..A..G.F G.A F..C..F...G A..A..G.F G.A F...

(Author's Note: For each F which had three dots, it should've been four, or even five for the last one, which would more accurately capture the rhythm of the song, but the document format for this website will not allow that, unfortunately.)

And so the music teacher performed a very basic rendition of "Alouette" on the large black piano, in the key of F.

The students sang along, in an English language translation devised by the teacher (Mrs. Matthews, the organist at Bonnie's church) which would be a lot easier for this English-language class.

They spent about fifteen minutes and did this several times, and then finally she decided to give their lungs a break.

"I want you to take out your notebooks and your pencil or pen," Mrs. Matthews said. "And I want you to write something down."

They took out their notebooks and writing instruments.

A student raised his hand. "Which one?"

"Huh?"

"I have three notebooks for classes."

"Any one will do," she said. "Write it on the back of the cover page so you'll remember where it is."

She waited a minute for them to take these instructions in, and then she continued:

"Write down 'Golden Book of Nursery Rhymes...page 13'. We have the book in the library, and if you forget the notes to this song then you can consult the book. Remember, there's only one copy in the library so don't try to check out with it. Read it in the library and then put it back so other students can use it too. But if you just remember the notes to the song then you won't need the book."

Their project was relatively simple. Since the first day they'd been introduced to an instrument called a recorder, which was like a primitive flute made out of cheap wood. They'd practiced using it, and now they were to memorize a song for an upcoming performance that their parents would be invited to attend.

This was, as you would've guessed by now, band class.

Mrs. Matthews then told her pupils to pick up their recorders once more.

She sing, and they played.

And predictably, about three quarters of the kids played the first note completely out of tune.

"No no no," she said. "Listen."

She took a small box off of the piano top, opened it, and took out a recorder.

She played the piece. Then she used a kleenex from a packet she kept on hand to wipe the mouthpiece, then throwing the kleenex away and putting the recorder back in the box.

To explain this behavior, it should be noted that from 1948 until 1949 Mrs. Matthews was a patient at a sanatorium in New Mexico, before finally being discharged and then treated with antibiotics. Since tuberculosis was extremely contagious, she did, though presumably cured, resolve to take precautions for the rest of her life to ensure that she did not infect anyone, and especially not young children.

"Okay, let's try it again," she said.

They tried again on their recorders, and once again it came across as disappointingly cacophonous.

* * *

**That Friday Night**

Gordy, five years old, was drawn to his big sister's room by the sound of music.

Frustrated, Bonnie tossed it over her shoulder onto her bed and sat down in a pouting fit.

_How do you know that you're doing it wrong_?

"Because it just doesn't sound right!" Bonnie said.

The door creaked open and Gordy stepped inside.

"Watcha doin?" he asked, fidgeting with his fingers.

"School."

"What kind of school?"

"Here, I'll show you."

She grabbed the recorder once more and began to play.

"A...lou-e-tte..."

Bonnie stopped and listened as Gordy began to sing, getting the first word right and then humming/mumbling the rest.

In key it sounded similar to what Mrs. Matthews did on the piano.

_...Whoa. Are you thinking what I'm thinking_?

Bonnie was indeed thinking what Tarokun was thinking.

And so, they used Gordy's uncanny and unexpected ability to sing notes accurately to "fine tune" their performance.

* * *

**Tuesday, September 30, 1958**

After the band was done playing, Mrs. Matthews clapped.

"Bravo," she said. "Bravo."

"Huh?"

"Bravo means good work," she explained.

"Oh."

The girls in the group had clearly improved the most, because Bonnie had invited many of them over to her house to work with Gordy to get it right. Her little brother was happy to receive the attention and spent several hours with them until they could all play in tune.

With one exception, none of the boys came over. And so most of them still sounded like crap when they played. Still, the improvement on the part of the girls was enough to make it sound significantly better.

The "concert" was tonight. And so, with that in mind:

"And a one and a two and a one two three four..."

The woodwind orchestra came to life once more.

Unexpectedly, Mrs. Matthews suddenly gave the signal for them to stop playing.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, Bonnie noticed something.

For a whole two seconds Jane was still holding the recorder to her mouth, and her fingers were still moving on and off the holes as though she were playing.

*gasp* "Have you been pretending this whole time?!" Bonnie accused, pointing at Jane.

Jane shook her head. "Nuh uh! I was playing the whole time like everyone else!"

"No you weren't! You're lying!"

"Bonnie shut up!"

This was enough to send the class into an uproar.

* * *

At lunchtime, Bonnie sat at her usual table looking across at Jane, who gave a short glance staring daggers her way.

"I can't believe it," she said, looking back down at her food. "We worked our butts off and I bet she hasn't been practicing one bit!"

_...You're right_. _She hasn't been practicing_.

"Huh?"

She's mad at you right now because you called her out on it. She was trying to keep it a secret. She wants to find a way to get back at you.

"How do you know that?"

_What if I told you I can read her mind from across the room_?

"I don't believe you!"

_Well, I can read your mind, right_?

He did have a point, she had to admit. She could never beat him at "I Spy".

Just then, a student named Tony sat down at a table between Bonnie's and Jane's. He was somewhat notorious among the student body for his persistent habit of sucking his thumb, despite being seven years old, and nearing eight.

"Hey Tony," a girl said. "What's with your fingers? Did you get hurt?"

Indeed, his fingers were bandaged.

"No," he said bashfully. "Dad put these on to break my habit. The hot sauce didn't work."

"Hot sauce?"

"Yeah," Tony said. "He put in on my fingernails and said if I put my fingers in my mouth it would hurt but mom said I looked like a girl so he washed it off."

Bonnie was distracted and failed in that moment to notice the sly grin on Jane's face.

* * *

She took a peek through the curtain, beginning to feel uneasy about the prospect of performing in front of so many adults, though it was literally just one song.

_Don't worry. You got this. You practiced. Even if you mess up it's not your fault_.

Feeling a little better, she went to grab her recorder.

Jane brushed past her, giving her kind of an evil smirk. Nobutaro didn't notice exactly what the blonde girl was thinking in that moment. He'd kind of forgotten about earlier's incident.

Mrs. Matthews furled up the curtain via the pulley string, and the students were lined up with their instruments.

"And a one and a two and a one two three four..."

They started playing, about as well as they'd done earlier in the day.

But not three seconds later, Bonnie's face turned bright red. She dropped her recorder on the ground and stumbled backwards, screaming in pain.

Everyone stopped and turned to watch her. Mrs. Matthews ran to her and tried to find out what was wrong, and likewise Stacey and Chad got out of their seats in the rows and headed upstage to tend to their daughter.

Suffice to say, the night was ruined for her, and also for Nobutaro, who felt it as well in all of its searing intensity.

Jane, inspired by the earlier conversation, had placed hot sauce on the mouthpiece of Bonnie's instrument.

Bonnie wasn't entirely clear as to this, but she knew that, whatever had happened tonight, Jane was somehow responsible.

And she wasn't going to just let this slide. Ohh no.

* * *

With the hot sauce incident, Jane had fired the first shots of the war.

The next Monday, Bonnie and Nobutaro had captured a spider in a small, disposable glass container and managed to sneak it inside Jane's lunch pail, eliciting a shocked scream from the girl when lunchtime rolled around that day.

The day after that, Bonnie found that three of the pages for her third period notes had been torn up. And so, the day after that, she "accidentally" spilled milk on Jane's dress (she managed to run away before Jane could spill milk on hers in retaliation).

On Thursday Jane spitballed a wad of gum into her hair using a rolled up piece of paper as a makeshift bazooka, to Bonnie's horror. She started freaking out in the middle of class, and so Nobutaro had to switch with her to pull it out of her hair, carry it across the classroom, and drop it in a trash bin.

And that was just about the last straw for Bonnie. She ran up to Jane and started pulling her hair, which led to a heated scuffle on the floor right then and there, which the teacher had to break up.

* * *

**Thursday, October 9, 1958**

She opened the front door to her house very carefully, quietly.

Closing it behind her very carefully so as to not make a lot of noise, she saw the stairs straight ahead and was about to make a bolt for it when-

"Bonnie Grace Cartwright! Come here!"

Stacey was sitting on the sofa in the living room.

She tapped/patted the couch seat next to her so as to indicate "sit down here".

Bonnie did as she was told, reluctantly.

"I got a call from your teacher today," her mother said. "Do you care to tell me what all that was about?"

"She started it!"

"Who?"

"Jane Osteen," Bonnie said grumpily. "She's so mean to me."

"Well, are you mean to her?"

Bonnie didn't answer.

"You know what? I don't want to ever hear about this happening again. Go to your room. You can stay up there until dinner time."

* * *

"I-If I...speak...in the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity...I am...become...as s-s-s-sound-ing of..."

He stopped there. As for that next word, he'd never heard it used before.

Brass? A sounding of brass? What was that?

He looked up at the time on Bonnie's alarm clock.

Only about thirteen minutes. That meant he had seventeen minutes to go of reading before he could be done. This, combined with listening to people speak in raw English (that is, without the translator which was Bonnie's consciousness, accomplished via body-switching so that he heard the speech directly), allowed him to slowly pick up more and more, and better and better, reading and listening comprehension skills in the English language by the day.

This was a long-standing effort. It'd taken him more than two years to reach this point. She had helped him along the way, encouraged him, motivated him, made him do the work when he didn't want to.

Right now she was asleep in his body. Unlike two years ago, this kind of situation did not spell disaster for him. If anything, it meant a little extra practice. And he would get to enjoy a meal, exercising total control while eating, which was obviously a big plus.

He focused back to the words on the page:

"And th-though I have the...gift of pro-phecy, and unders-stand all...myst-eries, and all knowledge..."

He continued to stumble his way through it, until finally:

"And now abid-eth faith, h-hope, and charity, th-these three...but the greatest of these..."

Is charity.

That word. Charity. What did it mean? It was a strange word, that was for sure. He hadn't heard it used in conversation.

He consulted the thick brown dictionary sitting on the floor underneath Bonnie's bed.

Let's see, he thought, it starts with c and then the next letter is an h, so...

He flipped through the pages until he found it. The entry for "Charity". It read:

"In a general sense, love, benevolence, good will; that disposition of heart which inclines men to think favorably of their fellow man, and to do them good."

"Love," he repeated out loud.

He put the dictionary aside and began re-reading the passage in Corinthians that he'd just gone through:

Six minutes past the required thirty minutes, he put the book down. And in that moment he believed (rightly or wrongly) that he understood the meaning of the passage:

Without love, you are nothing, and your actions profit you nothing.

"Love," he repeated again.

Then he shook his head. "Gross."

* * *

**Wednesday, November 12, 1958**

In the Wichita area, it wasn't so terribly rare a thing that it might snow in the middle of November. Today was one of those days.

And so, when they got off the bus Bonnie and Jane watched each other like hawks, to make sure that neither was trying to make a snowball. A mutual relief and disappointment (because they couldn't land a hit on the other person) set in when they stepped inside the school building.

Bonnie took her seat and looked out the window, out at the shiny white reflective layer of snow all over the ground and the roof outside.

_Hey, what's the first thing you're going to do when it's time for recess_?

She thought about it for a moment, and then:

"I'm going to make a snowman."

He burst out laughing.

"W-What's so funny?!" she protested.

_You'll have a snowman without a face or a nose_.

"Not true, I can use rocks for a face and, um, a stick for a nose," she said. "Yeah, a stick."

_You're supposed to use coal and a carrot. That's what your dad said_.

"I don't have to," she said. "I can use other things if I want."

_Suit yourself. Hey, how about a snow angel_?

"Huh?"

_You know, a snow angel_!

"Is that where you have to lie down on the ground?"

_Yeah. Do you wanna_?

"I don't want to do that! It's cold!"

_Aw man, you don't? Can i make one, then_?

"Hmph, I'll think about it."

* * *

From the perspective of the other kids in the room it was the usual: Bonnie talking seemingly to herself, or, rather, to her imaginary friend, what was his name again? Tarcoon?

A lot of the kids still had imaginary friends of their own, and a few were even inspired by Bonnie to take up such practice where they hadn't before, but in the years that followed most of them would outgrow their imaginary friends, especially as they entered adolescence.

It was still a good way off for now, but eventually she would become something of an oddity from the viewpoint of her peers: the only girl who kept it up, as she got older.

Right now, nobody blinked an eye about the conversations she was holding with this invisible kid. But the time would come when they started to whisper about her, and laugh at her behind her back.

When the time came, she was not blind, or deaf, to this new development. And so, her relationship with Nobutaro changed while in the public sphere. She still chatted with him as eagerly as ever, but from then on she tried to hide it from other people.

She even adopted this practice at home, as her mother and father began to press her about the importance of putting aside such puerile trifles as imaginary friends. There was nowhere left, except behind closed doors, and under her breath.

He never went away, of course. He was free to be as loud as he wanted, because nobody could hear him save Bonnie. But she had to be more diplomatic about it.

Sometimes her parents caught wind of her talking about Tarokun.

And so, in response to this they came up with an elaborate story: that Nobutaro, a Japanese boy, was her pen pal. They claimed the letters were composed at school, sent through the school system, and received through such, and so there was never any material to take home. It was an elaborate strategy, but it worked in large part because it coincided with an actual pen pal program that her school was sponsoring.

A few years passed...

* * *

**Monday, April 15, 1963**

*screech*

Up forward.

Down backwards.

Up backwards.

Down forward.

Up forward.

Down backwards.

Bonnie kicked off the ground to make the swing go high.

"Huh? No, that's stupid!" she protested.

Recently they, Gordy, and Stacey had began watching a new show on television titled "The Golden Years". In typical fashion of television dramas at this time, it was not prerecorded as it aired on TV but rather it was performed live by actors in a studio somewhere. Each episode was 15 minutes, and 3 episodes aired a week. It was in black in white, as most television programming still was at this time, and household product placement in the show was very blatant.

The protagonist was Frank Normand, a 32 year old man in 1964 whose life hadn't turned out the way he wanted. He'd been the star quarterback during high school back in 1949, but his dreams of going pro were flushed down the drain when a serious injury befell him suddenly and kept him from playing again. Now he worked a mediocre job applying paint to walls and lived by himself in a depressing apartment. He had nothing now but empty dreams of what could've been.

And then, out of the blue, he was given a chance to relive those years, by traveling back in time to 1949, his present consciousness in his younger body. This was his big chance to do things over. But could he really make a difference in the ultimate outcome of his life?

Its airtime was after Bonnie and Gordy returned home from school, so the three (four, really) of them watched it together. They lied down facing forward on the living room rug, which was perfect for the purposes of their TV-viewing ritual.

_No, it's not stupid_, Nobutaro retorted. _His younger self died_.

"But that would make his younger self and his older self two different people," Bonnie said. "If you died years ago, you wouldn't be alive today."

_They are different people. Old Frank's younger self that he remembers is different from his younger self who died_.

"That doesn't even make sense! Old Frank's younger self and the self who died were exactly the same person! How could they become different?"

_Because that's how time travel works. You don't actually change the past you just create a copy of the past that you go visit or live in_.

"So it's all an illusion? Like a dream?"

_No, it's real to him_.

"So like a dream you can never wake up from?"

_No, it's a copy but it's real like real life is real_.

"So he created another Universe then?"

_I suppose he did_.

"But that would make Frank like God. Nobody is like God."

_It's a TV show, Bonnie. Anything can happen_.

"So he created a copy of his younger self and then that copy died so that he could live in that body?"

_Yes_.

"But-

_No buts. I spent a lot of time thinking about this. That's the only explanation I could come up with_.

"...That's pretty good."

_Huh_?

"You came up with all that just from watching this show. You should be a writer."

_Yeah, like Isaac Asimov. That would be cool_.

Gordy was at about the age that he took an interest in popular science and pulp fiction magazines and short stories relating to such, and also in comic books. His parents paid for subscriptions in several magazines for him, and he let Bonnie go through them them when he was done each time (her parents didn't subscribe for her viewing pleasure because she was a girl and the material given to Gordy was considered not to be for girls).

"Hey, we should come up with something together."

_Huh_?

"Yeah. Something with a name like 'The Shocking Tales of Princess Vampira of the Galactic Empire'."

Why would I call it that?

"I don't know. I was just-what's the term, brain...

_Brainstorm_.

"Yeah. That...Weird, though."

_Huh_?

"Brainstorm. Brain storm. That phrase, I don't think there's anything like it in Japanese."

_No. Why do you ask_?

"Nothing. Your English is really good."

_Thanks. I'm not talking in English right now, but I think I can speak and understand it well_.

In fact, Nobutaro was speaking in English at that moment. Not entirely. Mostly it was Japanese, but he'd spent so long outside the company of his ethnic compatriots that he was starting to forget some words in his native language and replace them with English ones. His everyday vocabulary, then, was beginning to sound like a strange mixture of two tongues.

Not impressed upon either of them was the magnitude of the daily cultural exchange between two peoples living on opposite sides of the world, from cultures totally alien to one another.

For the most part, it appeared that Nobutaro was the one who conformed the most to the ways of the other side. He'd been taken from ordinary life at such a young age that he really didn't have much for Bonnie in this regard.

But anyways, they soon went inside to resume class, and that was when "it" happened.

* * *

The teacher, Mrs. Mildred, dimmed the lights, rolled down the screen, and turned on the slide projector. Immediately a black and white image was projected onto the screen. It was a drawing, like the kind from an encyclopedia, of the Japanese isles.

"Okay," she said. "Today we're going to conclude our presentation of East Asia by talking about a country known as Japan, the Land of the Rising Sun (nihon-koku)."

Bonnie's eyes lit up.

"Like Britain, Japan is a country that consists of many thousands of islands. There are three main islands, however. They are..."

The next image popped up.

"Honshu."

*flick*

"Kyushu."

*flick*

"And Hokkaido, to the far north."

"Most of Japan's people live in Honshu," she said. "It is one of the most populated islands in the world. Hokkaido, to the north, on the other hand, does not have very many people living there. Some older maps will show Japan as having control over the island of Sakhalin, which nowadays belongs to the Soviet Union as per the postwar settlement."

"Japan was a country that was closed off to the rest of the world until the 1850s," she continued, "when Commodore Matthew Perry of the US Navy sailed to Japan with a number of warships and demonstrated the superior firepower of Western militaries. The Japanese government agreed to open itself to Western trade, and the country began to modernize and industrialize."

*flick*

"By the early 20th century," she continued, "Japan was a modern power able to compete with some European powers, and especially Russia. European nationalistic ideas were imported, and the Japanese came to believe that it was their destiny to dominate East Asia and the Pacific. (*flick*) Their leadership forced the country into a number of imperialist wars, which led to them attacking the US naval base at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. This led to America's entry into World War II, and after 4 years of bitter fighting we forced their government to surrender."

*flick*

"In the years after the war," she continued, "the Japanese Isles were administered by American authorities. Since then control of most of Japan has been returned to local hands. The country's close proximity to the Republic of Korea, Republic of China, Republic of Vietnam, and the eastern flank of the Soviet Union means a lot of American bases are in Japan today."

She looked to make sure that the students were taking notes. Satisfied, she continued.

*flick*

"Like many countries in East Asia, Japan is Buddhist, combined with the native Japanese religion that many people still practice. There used to be a lot of Christians in Japan, but they died out long ago. Missionary efforts in Japan in recent times have been mostly unsuccessful. The country follows a Confucian ethos, imported from China. Indeed, much of Japan's culture is Chinese in origin. Their writing script, for example, consists of Chinese characters, combined with an indigenous alphabet referred to as kana."

She butchered the pronunciation of kana, pronouncing the first syllable like "can".

*flick*

"This is a Japanese temple."

*flick*

"This is a Japanese castle. They look very different from European castles, but both kinds were built with the same purpose in mind, which was to serve as fortresses in time of war."

*flick*

"This is a Japanese family eating a meal. Note the way that they're dressed, the low table, the lack of chairs. This is their traditional way of life. It is very different from how we do things here in America. But as we've learned, different isn't always bad."

She turned the projector off and turned the lights back on.

"Are there any questions? Comments?"

One girl raised her hand. "Those silk dresses are gorgeous."

"I know, right? My older sister has one like that. They cost a lot of money to import."

A boy raised his hand.

"Yes, Chuck?"

"Have they ever apologized?"

"Huh?"

"My uncle was stationed in Hawaii when it happened," the boy named Chuck said. "He says he had friends who died there. Have the Japanese ever apologized for the people they killed?"

Mrs. Mildred sighed. "Chuck, every country has done something worth apologizing for. Even America, as great as this country is, America has done bad things too. There are parts of our history that are ugly, and horrifying. Makes me sick even thinking about the things my ancestors did. Even today there are things going on in some corners of America that we'd just rather not talk about. I think a lot of countries that do these things don't apologize for them, because it's easier not to admit that they did anything wrong. Right now most of the people in Japan think we're the aggressors."

"The what?"

"Aggressors. They think we're the ones who attacked them first. And who can blame them? We dropped bombs on their cities."

A girl raised her hand. "Yeah, but, they attacked us first, didn't they?"

Mrs. Mildred nodded. "They did. And I'm not in any way excusing that. But we've all done things. I don't think it's very productive to play the blame game. I think instead of focusing on what we've done wrong, and what other people have done wrong, we should think about how we can do better from now on. Because we can all do better. As for the Japanese people, I think the mere fact that talking about the acts their government has committed makes them uncomfortable enough that they'll try to avoid that conversation altogether suggests that their consciences are still sensitive to crimes against innocent people in general. That in itself is an encouraging sign that they're not going to repeat such acts, nor support a government that would going forward."

"Now," she continued, "one could well argue that that is a much lesser remedy than for a people to face up to what happened. But sometimes you just have to take what you can get and leave it at that. If you push a people too far, they might actually respond by doubling down, and insisting that the acts in question, though committed, were not criminal or wrong. And that is far, far more dangerous a thing, because it means they've returned to the mindset that inspired the atrocities in the first place."

There was a pause.

"And...I'm now remembering that you're all too young for this conversation."

She looked around. And then she remembered something that she could say to change the topic.

"Bonnie. If I'm not mistaken, you're pen pals with a Japanese boy. Why don't you tell us about that?"

"She isn't either," Jane interjected. "She just talks to her imaginary friend."

"Jane, what did I say about raising your hand first?"

She turned to Bonnie. "Go on."

"Well...his name is Tarokun. Or at least, that's why I call him. 'kun' is a Japanese word you add to the end of somebody's name as to mean a boy who's the same age as you, if you're both kids, or a man or boy who's younger than you, if you're an adult. His full name is Nobutaro."

"Nobu Taro?" the teacher repeated. "That's a first and last name?"

Bonnie shook her head. "That's his first name. He doesn't have a last name."

"I think I find that a bit hard to believe," Mrs. Mildred said. "Family names are a universal naming convention, which have been codified in the modern history of Japan. Everyone in that country has a formal last name nowadays."

"Well, he doesn't know it."

"That's because you made him up!" Jane said.

Ignoring Jane's outburst, Mrs. Mildred said: "Do you, um, know any Japanese?"

"I'm sorry?"

"From your interactions with this boy. Clearly he knows English, if you're pen pals. I imagine it's part of the curriculum over there. So has he taught you any Japanese words? Or, can you write anything in Japanese? Has Tarokun taught you anything like that?"

_Yes. I'll show them right now. Switch with me_.

Bonnie hesitated.

"Are you sure?" she whispered under her breath.

_Yeah. Switch with me now_.

*vreeng*

Sitting in Bonnie's seat in this classroom, Nobutaro pivoted left and then right.

He put his hand to Bonnie's throat just to feel it and kind of confirm mentally that he could use it. Something he usually did whenever he tried talking with Bonnie's mouth.

And then:

"Mina, hajimemashite. Atashi no namae wa Bonnie, soshite kore wa Nihongo desu."

He turned to Jane.

_Stop. Don't get me in trouble_.

It's not like she'd understand me anyways, he thought. But okay.

*vreeng*

"There you go," Bonnie said to Jane. "Satisfied yet?"

Jane was silent.

Bonnie looked around. Several students were visibly surprised by the display. It seemed that good old Bonnie wasn't making it up after all.

Aware now that this was a real thing, Mrs. Mildred was intrigued. "How old is Tarokun?"

"About...the same age as me," Bonnie said.

"And how long have you been in contact with him?" Mrs. Mildred asked.

Bonnie was about to say "only about a year", but there were kids here who could attest to the fact that this'd been going on much longer than that. Therefore, she decided to take a risk and blurt out:

"Since kindergarten."

Mrs. Mildred's eyebrows furrowed. "So you've known this boy a long time, then."

Bonnie nodded. "He's my..."

She thought about it for a moment. And then:

"He's my boyfriend!"

That right there got them talking.

Mrs. Mildred coughed. "I-I see. That's...very nice."

* * *

His face was bright red, his cheeks flushed.

That Bonnie thought of him in such terms...

It made him feel warm and giddy inside. A very satisfying feeling.

Like he was on top of the world.

He disconnected, just for a moment.

With his feeble legs he stood up, in the dark room.

He took a step forward, and then another.

There was a spring in his step. He was starting to come off the ground.

And then...

He dashed forwards. Then took a curve. He ran in a circle around the room.

"Whoohoo!"

And then, he bent forwards and, propelled by momentum, he did a cartwheel.

He did a roll and emerged upright on the other end, exuberant.

He was starting to feel tired now. He returned to his corner, sat down, and reconnected.

In truth, Bonnie hadn't really meant it. She was too young to understand what it really meant. But the idea was a novel one for them, and quite exhilarating to think about.

* * *

The bell rang.

The students got up and headed out of the room.

Mrs. Mildred stepped out from behind her desk and approached Bonnie.

"Could I have a word with you?"

Worried that she was in trouble, Bonnie's heart began to race.

Soon they were alone in the room.

Mrs. Mildred sat down. "Bonnie, everything that you said earlier...is it the truth?"

Bonnie nodded. "Yes ma'am."

"And you've really been in touch with him since kindergarten?"

"Yes."

There was a pause.

"Is there a problem, ma'am?"

"I...what's your plan?"

"Huh?"

"When you grow up. What's your plan?"

"I...I'm not sure what you mean."

"You and Nobutaro. I take it you've never met him in person?"

"No ma'am. I haven't. We're on opposite sides of the world."

"Have you ever talked with him on the phone?"

She thought about it, and then answered:

"No ma'am."

Curious as for the long pause, Mrs. Mildred irregardless continued:

"Would you like to meet him one day?"

Puzzled as to why a question like that would be raised, Bonnie answered:

"Yes ma'am, I think I would."

"And then what?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"If you should meet with him, then what?"

"I-I'm not sure what you mean."

"What would you do if you met with him?"

Bonnie shrugged. "We would talk. Face to face. We would play together, do things together."

"You would like that?"

"Yes, of course! It sounds wonderful."

"...And how do you think that might happen?"

There was a blank stare on Bonnie's face.

"How do you think you're going to meet one day? How?"

"W-Well, I suppose one of us would have to order a plane ticket across the Pacific Ocean."

"You would visit Japan?"

"Umm, no, I was thinking he could come here."

"And you would be satisfied by just a short visit?"

Bonnie shook her head. "No, I was thinking he could stay here. He knows English, but I don't speak Japanese."

"You want him to come be here with you for the rest of your lives?"

"E-Excuse me?"

"Hmm?"

"The way you're describing that..."

But then she nodded. "Yes. I think I would like that very much."

Mrs. Mildred smiled sadly. "Bonnie, if you want to meet Tarokun, you're going to have to save your money, and learn Japanese. Because he can't come to you."

Does she...know about the dungeon? Bonnie wondered. How?

"Bonnie, I'm not sure how to tell you this. But as a person from an East Asian country, somebody like Tarokun would be denied entry into the United States."

"...What?"

"A law was passed in the 1920s that effectively barred immigrants from Asia, and it remains on the books today."

Bonnie was dumbstruck.

There was a pause.

"There...there must be some mistake..."

"I'm afraid not. The law nowadays doesn't officially take race into account. But the overall point of it is still to prevent colored people from coming into this country. Tarokun, being Japanese, is a person of color. The law was designed specifically to exclude people like him. And until Congress acts to change the law..."

Bonnie stood up.

She shook her head.

"No," she said. "That's...that's nonsense, right? Everyone? Even President Kennedy? You're telling me that...the whole wide government is okay with this?"

"...I'm sorry. But that's the way it is."

Overwhelmed, Bonnie dashed out of the room.

* * *

It was true.

After consulting her dad that night, and then a library in Wichita one month later, Bonnie and Nobutaro confirmed that the Immigration Act of 1924 had given the government authorization to decide which were "quota" and "non-quota" countries, and in addition it barred entry of people from Asiatic countries into the United States altogether.

That was just one of two problems.

The other was Nobutaro's ongoing captivity, of course. However, even to this there seemed a solution.

In his routine visit several months prior, Mr. Suzuki did something different. He brought with him an artefact.

An extremely fragile metal object, which had to be wheeled in on a stand and which Nobutaro was not allowed to touch. He was given a most unusual task, the first time that anything had been asked of him by Mr. Suzuki.

He was told to "find thoughts" within the artefact. In effect, to commune with the object as he would with a person (specifically, Bonnie).

Upon finding himself unable to complete the task, Mr. Suzuki reluctantly granted him permission to touch the object and try again. Even as the boy touched it, there was no effect.

Disappointed, the object was wheeled out of the room. But as Mr. Suzuki left, he did suddenly, right then and there, issue a promise to Nobutaro:

"The day that you figure this out is the day that I will grant you your freedom."

A shocking proposition, to be sure. Though for the time being it was not a very useful one, because the task was not possible even for him. But that was something to think about: if he should've ever succeeded at that task, he would be set free.

Freedom. What would that look like? He was still a kid, but Mr. Suzuki didn't specify what would happen to him, or how he'd support himself. So maybe for the time being it wasn't such a desirable outcome after all?

But what he knew for sure was that he did not want to spend the rest of his life in here.

* * *

**Thursday, July 4, 1963**

Stacey checked to make sure the ground was clear of ant piles before setting down the checkered red and white picnic blanket.

Like many Wichitan families, the Cartwrights had flocked to this sloped field outside of the city in the promise of a fireworks show to be held at 7:00. It was a green and white pasture, the white being clover, of which there was an abundance.

The time now was 6:16.

"Hey," Gordy said excitedly. "The fireworks. Are they going to be red white and blue? I bet they'll be red white and blue."

"They sure will," Stacey said. "Because today we're celebrating the independence of our country. This is a very special day."

"Actually," Chad said, just kind of wanting to show off, "Gay knows a thing or two about this, and from what he told me you're not going to see any blue fireworks."

"Really?" Stacey asked. "Why's that?"

"I don't know the exact science, but he says blue fireworks, and I mean pure blue, not like, say, purple, are really hard to make. So it's going to be a lot more expensive. If I were the mayor I'd just cut the blue fireworks out of the budget for this."

"Oh? Well that's a shame."

They were all sitting on the picnic blanket facing forward.

Bonnie had a bored expression on her face. She then turned to her mother and said:

"Can I wander around a bit?"

"Hmm? Uh, sure, just be careful, and be back here before it starts."

"Alright."

She got up and headed down the slope.

A national pastime. The citizenry arranged for pageants, parades, and similar events that expressed patriotism. Often this was paid for by taxpayers. Other times exceptionally zealous citizens hosted such displays themselves. The purpose behind all of it, of course, was to serve as a common celebration of the long endurance of the Republic.

The Declaration of Independence had been drafted and signed by an assembly of great men 187 years ago. And seemingly every period of American history had a story to tell. By its military might it had triumphed repeatedly against its enemies.

At first this had manifested itself as a squabble between two members of the English community of civilizations, rooted in a common heritage but at odds over the political innovation that was Parliamentary Supremacy, which had come to prevail in the British side of the Atlantic and which was opposed on the American side in favor of the older way of doing things, which better ensured checks, balances, and due process in general.

Over the course of geographical expansion, Jacksonian populism, the civil war and immigration the Republic took on a distinctly less English character and came to represent a national ideal less rooted in prior tradition. It grew in strength and entered into the era of ideology ready to emerge onto the global scene as a force for stability of the order which so preceded nineteenth century radical ideology, but which was in itself ideological in many ways.

And the transition seemed to go rather smoothly. Americans were united in war and peace alike against foreign enemies. Over time American society became more inclusive, which fostered unity further. There had not seemed to be a crisis of identity.

Until now. The generation that came after the war was a rebellious generation, one which now, having come of age, was beginning to question every part of the system under which they lived, of the country which they'd always been taught to call home. It was a rebellion that in the long term had the effect of fundamentally changing American society. This was a multi-pronged rebellion, rooted in many issues.

Disillusionment. If one word could sum up the root cause of this rebellion, that would be it. Millions of young people were awakened. With their own two eyes they saw the carnage that the hands of "civilized humanity" had wrought. They saw the segregated lines outside of buildings. They heard about the bodies hanging lifelessly from trees, the cruelty that people inflicted upon their fellow countrymen on account of petty trifles.

They saw, and they took to heart. The injustice that was at the very core of 1960s America. They took it to heart, and with them everywhere they went. Day and night. At work, in leisure, at home, and outside the home. Everywhere they went.

Bonnie's eyes had been opened, her innocence robbed of her by the realization of the truth. That in America whether you were a 1st or 2nd class citizen was determined by the color of your skin, by where your parents and grandparents came from.

And so she took this conviction with her, to this field. This beautiful field, in the beautiful countryside of this beautiful land.

Her ankles brushed with tall plants. She looked up at the sky. She looked left and right. She took in a panoramic view of her surroundings.

_Don't tell me that's still on your mind_.

"It is."

_You can still enjoy yourself, you know_.

"No."

_Fine. If you won't then I will_.

Silence.

_The fireworks are going to be mighty impressive, I bet. What are you going to do? Wait in the car_?

"I'll watch. But I'm not going to enjoy it. Because all of this..."

She shook her head. "What's the point?"

_Does there have to be a reason to have a party_?

She laughed.

_Hey now, I'm serious! You know that I'm here. And I'll always be here. I'm not going anywhere, you know_.

"It's not the same."

_Not the same? As what_?

"Y-You know..."

There was a pause.

...Do you need a hug?

She raised her eyebrow. "And how exactly are you going to do that?"

Like this.

*vreeng*

He looked left, and then right, and got a good look at Bonnie's surroundings.

Confident that he probably wouldn't be making a scene, he proceeded to extend his arms to his sides.

And then he brought them in. He had Bonnie's left hand clasp her right shoulder, and then her right hand clasp her left shoulder. He tried to stretch them as far as he could, so as to tighten the "embrace". Finally, he rested the top of her left cheek against the back wrist of her right hand.

*vreeng*

There you go.

Standing in place, in that position, Bonnie just felt it and tried to imagine what it would've actually been like.

Granted, she understood that technically she was just hugging herself and looking like a weirdo. But she didn't particularly care. She was already the "odd man out" at an event like this.

Soon after the fireworks started and, contrary to Bonnie's expectations, she did have a good time.

* * *

**Saturday, July 6, 1963**

"Please, have a seat."

Bonnie was seated.

She was in the backroom office of Reverend Norquist at the church. A single light bulb overhead illuminated the room.

"So, um, why is it that you wanted to meet me in the middle of the night?" he asked. "Do your parents know you're here?"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, but this is important to me, and I don't want anybody knowing."

In truth, she arranged for it to be at this time so that even Nobutaro didn't know. He was fast asleep at this time.

"First of all...I never got around to thanking you properly."

"Hmm?"

"For what you did for Tarokun."

He thought about it for a moment, remembered what it was she was talking about, and then answered:

"I'm just here to do the Lord's work," he said modestly. "But that was what, a year ago? Why are you bringing this up now?"

She shook her head. "No reason. That's not why I'm here."

She told him what she'd learned about current US immigration law, and its implications here.

He sighed. "Yup, that is indeed the law as of right now."

"How do you deal with it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"How can you go about your day like normal, knowing how things are in the world?" she asked.

He rubbed his eyebrows, as though he were tired. In truth he was trying to think.

He stood up, walked across the room, took a King James off a tall shelf, sat back down, opened it, and began reading through it.

"Bonnie," he said, "Let me read something for you from Scripture. The Book of Jeremiah says 'The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?'. We...all of us. This chapter was speaking to all of us. There is not one man in this world who is truly righteous. Not you, not me, not our lawmakers in Washington."

"The best we can hope for," he continued, "is that the Lord may count us as righteousness. The Book of Hebrews says that by Abraham's faithful obedience he was counted righteous. What that means is that if we place our faith in the Lord He will wash over our sins."

"But that's a very hard thing to truly do," he said. "It means surrendering your life completely over to His will. A lot of people, probably most people, have never done that. So they continue to live their lives the way that they want to live it, because everyone knows what's best for themselves, right? But that is what the Bible calls sin. The world is filled with sin, because men are sinners. The consequences of sin are death. It's war. Crime. Murder. Injustice. These are the wages of a sinful humanity."

"The teacher in the Book of Ecclesiastes declared that 'There is no new thing under the sun'," he continued. "Jesus said that 'The poor you will always have with you'. As it was in the days of Noah, when the world was filled with vice, corruption, and every evil thing, so it still is today, and so it always shall be, until the day that He returns in power and glory, to judge the living and the dead and to restore all of creation to its original perfect condition."

"In spite of this," he continued, "we are not to simply turn our backs on the world. First, that is usually not possible. Second, Jesus commanded us to render under Caesar what is Caesar's. That is, obey the authorities, pay your taxes, and show them the proper respect. That's really all that we can do, and for the rest we just have to leave it up into the Lord's hands that it'll all work out for the better in the end."

"So...do nothing?" Bonnie concluded.

"W-Well, when you put it like that..."

"I'm not sure that I can just accept," she said. "Thank you for your time."

She stood up, placed the chair carefully under the desk, and turned around. She was about to step through the door when:

"...Bonnie, wait."

She turned around.

"I have something else I want to tell you. Please sit back down."

She did so, curious.

"When I was young man, just considering going into the ministry, I one day read in the newspaper that our country was going to war. Now, it wasn't the war that your dad fought in. No. It was...the one before that."

"It'd been an ongoing situation in Europe for a number of years," he continued. "The kings and queens of Europe marched their armies across each other's borders, as they'd always done. The difference this time was that the means at their disposal for killing were much, much greater than ever before. The fields of Belgium became a bloodbath, like something out of a Dracula novel. Thousands of men died for a few meters of land. Their lives were worth nothing to their military leadership and to the crowns who they pledged allegiance to."

"The royal families of Europe," he continued. "Cold-blooded murderers, down to the last one of them. But no, we don't see them that we. We romanticize them. Envy their splendors...If anyone deserved to die in that war, it was each and every one of them. Not the innocent subjects whose lives they played with like-like toy soldiers. If the Bolsheviks did anything right at all, it's the fate that the Romanov dynasty met at their hands. And I know that sounds like a terrible thing for me to say, but...Anyways I thought...I thought that our leaders, in this Republic of ours, were beyond that strain of wickedness."

"But they weren't," he concluded sadly. "Woodrow Wilson...a 'humanitarian'. A man who pursued world peace. He wanted to leave a name for himself as a great philanthropist. But the way that he went about that, he had draft cards issued to millions of American men, the finest of our generation. He made them leave home, their grieving mothers behind, their wives and children behind. He turned them into disposable meat for the meatgrinder that was the war in Europe. A war that never threatened to touch our home soil to begin with, a war we could've very well staid out of. He paid for his 'humanitarian accomplishments' with their lives. More than a hundred thousand of them died. He had no right, no right at all to do that!"

"I had the fortune, or rather misfortune if you would," he continued, "of ministering to many of the men who'd returned home from the war battered, shell-shocked, maimed. They weren't the same people as they were before. I saw it firsthand. I should know. One man had his lower jaw blown off. Another was almost blind, his eyes jaundiced, from exposure to poison gas. Others took to the bottle, even became wife-beaters."

Bonnie was shocked, to say the least. The Reverend had never spoken of this before.

"And I asked the Lord," he said, "Why? 'Why would you let this happen?'. And I spent a lot of time going through the Word trying to find an answer. But then finally, it hit me. In the Book of Daniel, chapter 2. The king Nebuchadnezzar had a dream, sent to him from the Lord, which was interpreted by the Prophet Daniel. Without getting into detail, the dream described the rise and fall of nations. A kingdom rises. It has its time in the sun. It achieves greatness. Then it falls, at the hands of another. And that empire has its time. Achieves greatness. Then it too falls, and is replaced by yet another. It is a perpetual cycle. In the end all of the great achievements of any civilization will amount to nothing. They will be undone at the hands of another."

"But the key to the chapter is at the end," he continued. "It reads, 'And in the days of these kings shall the God of heaven set up a kingdom, which shall never be destroyed: and the kingdom shall not be left to other people, but it shall break in pieces and consume all these kingdoms, and it shall stand for ever.' Bonnie, I have chosen to place my trust in that kingdom. I am a proud citizen of the United States, and I always will be, but my trust is not in this government. One day it too will fall and be replaced, and all of its great works will amount to nothing. If you fight for justice in this world, that is a commendable thing, but whatever you achieve will not last. Moth and rust doth corrupt the riches of this world, and for all that we accomplish we shall soon return to dust. That's why we should not place our trust in any cause, or any earthly reform movement. These things have their time and place in the sun. But they are not the most important things, no matter how grievous the ills they strive to resolve may be. There is only one eternal constant, and that is what I've chosen to set my eyes on."

He closed the Bible.

They sat there in silence for a good while. And then:

"...So what am I supposed to do?" she asked. "Tell me!"

He shrugged. "What can you do? How can you adapt to the situation?"

"Huh?"

"Tarokun is in Japan, no? The question is, are Americans allowed to go to Japan?"

She was silent.

"There is a justification, if not under normal circumstances. Missionaries are allowed to operate in the country.

"H-Huh?"

"That's something you ought to consider, for when you're older. In any event, if you plan on ever going to the country, under whatever declaration or pretense, I would advise beginning to save money now. Get a job, perhaps. By the time you're 18 and you've graduated high school, you should have enough, if you're a diligent worker and frugal saver in the next six or seven years."

She thought about it for a solid two minutes.

And then she stood up.

"...Do you need a ride home?"

"No, thank you."

He nodded. "Alright then. Go in peace, be safe coming home, and may the Lord bless."

* * *

**Sunday, July 14, 1963**

"In summary, if anybody has any information relating to what happened, I would much appreciate your forthcomingness and honesty. And, um, that'll be all. Thank you."

Somebody had broken into the church two nights prior and pilfered the tithe collection box. The Reverend, who was scheduled to finally retire in only about a month from now, was evidently not very happy about this.

Yup. He was mad, evident by the fact that he left out his usual closing benediction to "Go in peace and may the Lord bless". It was practically his signature by now, and he only omitted the line every now and then, perhaps his way of silently expressing his displeasure without coming across as bratty, choleric, or otherwise unprofessional.

The congregants began to disperse out the front door of the church.

The Chad, Stacey, and Gordy entered the car without Bonnie, who waved goodbye to them and headed in the opposite direction.

* * *

"You will answer to Mrs. Daphne. She'll show you around and tell you what to do."

Bonnie looked around. This room was probably more high-tech than anything she'd seen before in person.

More specifically, she was now on the inside of a telephone exchange.

_You don't have to do this_.

"Yes, I do."

"Hmm?" the man said.

"N-Nothing. So who here is Mrs. Daphne?"

"That would be me," a tall, heavy-built woman said.

She was standing behind the row of women facing forward. She had a haughty expression on her face, an authoritarian gleam in her eyes. Exactly the kind of person who would've spent her entire life bitter she hadn't been born a man so she could become a drill sergeant. If not for Bonnie, she would at that moment have been pacing the rows, eyeing the workers like a hawk.

That was not the impression Bonnie had of her. She didn't really know what to think yet.

She extended her hand. "Hello. I'm Bonnie Cartwright."

"Yes, yes, I heard you were coming. I'm Mrs. Daphne, the floor boss. Right this way, please."

Bonnie followed her to the other room, where they wouldn't be a source of noise for the phone lines.

"Tell me about yourself."

"W-Well, I'm eleven, going to be twelve in August. I decided I needed this summer job for-

"You can stop now. Your voice is...not ideal. Too nasally. We're going to have to work on that, though I do suppose that some of the older girls speak in much the same way. Let me ask you this: do you know how to consult an index?"

"Y-Yes. Everything's in alphabetical order."

Mrs. Daphne nodded. "Lucky for you, there's an opening about now. Hester married a couple of weeks ago, and the girls have been working irregular hours to fill in for her now empty time slot. Do you think that on Saturdays you could work, say, from 5 to 2?"

Bonnie blinked. Just to be sure that she hadn't misheard:

"5 o'clock in the morning to 2 o'clock in the afternoon, ma'am?"

"No. I mean 5 o'clock in the evening until 2 o'clock at night."

She swallowed.

"Those were the hours Hester worked on Saturday nights," Mrs. Daphne said. "Are you up for that?"

Obviously not willing to do that, Bonnie turned around and was about to head out when-

Mrs. Daphne grabbed her shoulder, startling her. "Hey, hey, I'm not done talking to you! Now, on account of your age I think we can arrange for somebody come in and replace you at 10. So you'll be working five hours, from 5 until 10."

"Five hours a week?"

"Yes. Five hours a week is all we have for you at this time, unless you're also willing to work those last 4 hours."

Bonnie was not, so...

"How much will I get paid?"

Mrs. Daphne laughed. "Not very much, dear. Or, at least, not as a beginner. The longer you hold this job, you'll have chances to up your pay. For the time being, 25 cents an hour is perfectly fair."

Bonnie did the math in her head. $1.25 a week, 52 weeks in a year, so that meant...$65 a year.

She'd asked her father to calculate the price, and he concluded that a one-way trip by plane from Wichita to Tokyo would probably cost $400-$600.

She would be turning eighteen in approximately six years from present. If she continuously made the above-described earnings for all of that time, she would...

Probably not have enough money for a one-way trip.

Well, that depended. If she cut costs by taking part of the trip by land, then maybe just barely. But then how would she get back?

So was this a waste of her time?

_Again, you don't have to do this_.

But wait, she thought. Mrs. Daphne said that 'at this time' there were no more hours. But what if that changed? What if, say, there was to be another opening and I was also able to work Sunday evenings and nights? Since I only have school 5 days a week, this would be sustainable even after summer break ended. There'd be the question of accomplishing homework assignments for Monday, but since I'd have until 4-something in the evenings to work on it, it might not be a problem.

Yeah, she thought. If I can do that, then I'll double my earnings. I could bring it up to $700, which will be enough for the trip there. And that's assuming I don't get promoted. If I should eventually get bumped up to 50 cents an hour, that'll double my earnings again. And I should be freely available to work every day of each summer. Eventually, maybe I could even work mornings.

_But what about living costs_?

"I can get a job once in the country."

"Hmm?" Mrs. Daphne said. "What was that?"

_But wouldn't that require something like a work visa_?

"Then I guess I'll just get one of those too," she snapped, annoyed at his negative attitude.

"Are you...talking to yourself?"

She shook her head in disapproval. "Well, you won't be doing any of that at your station. Anyways, you will not get paid for today, because technically you will not be working today. You will stay for, I don't know...the next three hours at least, and I want you to watch and listen quietly as Mabel shows you how it's done. Now, you will not interfere with her work. There will be no horseplay, or else we will not be hiring you. This is your one and only chance. I expect not to be disappointed. Am I clear?"

"Y-Yes ma'am. You won't be sorry."

* * *

The light above the jack flashed. Mabel inserted a plug. She flicked a switch on the panel and her earset was ready for her to receive a call and, to the extent necessary, communicate with the caller.

"Number please."

"Um, yes, I'd like to call..."

The caller gave the number while Mabel struck through digits on a paper card. She then connected the call by inserting the twin plug into the appropriate jack.

Bonnie tried to pay close attention. But not being able to hear the number requested made learning difficult. In addition, the numbers listed on the jacks did not seem to correspond with actual phone numbers. She wasn't aware of anyone whose home phone number was something like "57" or "25".

When she returned Saturday, she'd be working on the clock, though Mrs. Daphne would be standing behind her ensuring that her work was accurately done.

It took a couple of weeks, and elicited much frustration on Mrs. Daphne's part, but Bonnie soon became a reasonably proficient switchboard operator, for which she was not only able to last in the job but she was soon bumped up to working Sundays as well. As for getting to and from work, she became increasingly grateful for the bicycle that she'd received for her 10th birthday. It was a little scary peddling home in the pitch black of night, but only at first. Soon she came to think of it as a pleasant stroll, something that'd help her get good and tired for bed.

Nobutaro at first looked on disapprovingly, not wanting her to go to such lengths on his account, but he soon realized that the best thing he could be doing was to help lighten Bonnie's load.

And so, they agreed to divide her shifts in two. He worked one part, and she worked the other, so that both could have a break. By this time his English quality was good enough that it did not hinder his job performance.

In this capacity they remained, and the years passed...

* * *

**Sunday, October 3, 1965**

A lazy Sunday afternoon. The Reverend Kenneth Bauer, who'd replaced Rev. Norquist, had preached a fiery sermon on the ills of racial integration, during which he had some choice words to describe President Johnson. Something of an ongoing passion project for the young man. Unlike Norquist, he got emotional. Angry. There was raw pathos in his voice as he spoke on certain issues. Actually thumped the King James resting on his pulpit every now and then, making him into somewhat of a living stereotype at this point. He was a literal Bible thumper.

But anyways, now the Cartwrights were enjoying their afternoon and evening of leisure time. Bonnie, who had school tomorrow, had just finished up the last of her homework for Monday and so she was coming downstairs to enjoy some TV time in the living room before she had to go to work later.

By now this time there had been installed a small brown piano in the living room. Perfect for Bonnie to practice on, as Mr. Yuri expected of her in between lessons. But not today. Four days a week was sufficient.

The clock on the wall at the foot of the stairs said it was 2:10 PM.

In her hand were three sheet music books, which she'd brought upstairs a couple of days ago but which she was now going to return to its resting place on the piano downstairs.

She stepped into the living room.

"Done with homework," she said.

"Shh," her mother said, not looking away from the television.

On the screen was the President, speaking live from Liberty Island, New York:

"...it does repair a very deep and painful flaw in the fabric of American justice," he declared boldly. "It corrects a cruel and enduring wrong in the conduct of the American nation."

Intrigued, Bonnie stood there watching the screen as the President continued to drone on until:

"This bill says simply that from this day forth those wishing to immigrate to America shall be admitted on the basis of their skills and their close relationship to those already here...The fairness of this standard is so self-evident that we may well wonder that it has not always been applied. Yet the fact is that for over four decades the immigration policy of the United States has been twisted and has been distorted by the harsh injustice of the national origins quota system. Under that system the ability of new immigrants to come to America depended upon the country of their birth..."

And finally, the big declaration:

"Today, with my signature, this system is abolished."

Bonnie dropped the books in her hand onto the floor. And she stood frozen in place, her mouth gaping wide open.

* * *

("Be Thou My Vision" by Kalafina, feat. Yuki Kajiura, instrumentals in "Celtic" style)

_Bi thusa mo shuile a ri mhor na nduil_

_Lion thusa mo bheatha, mo cheadfai's mo stuaim_

_Bi thusa i m'aigne gach oiche's gach la_

_Im chodladh no im dhuiseacht lion me le do gra_

_Bi thusa mo threoru i mbriathar is i mbeart_

_Fan thusa go deo liom is coinnigh me ceart_

_Glac curam mar athair is eist le mo ghui_

_Is tabhair domhsa ait conai istigh i do chroi_

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	5. Chapter 5

**An Ufotable Production**

**Friday, March 28, 1958**

It was by sheer luck, that they caught it out of the corner of their eye.

They weren't usually one to read the paper. Those "newsworthy" things, of wars and political intrigue, did not concern them any longer. They'd simply been on their way to take their lunch break at a sandwich shop within walking distance of their workplace. As was normal.

But they were in luck that along that same path was a newspaper stand. And today the headline on the front page was particularly relevant.

They stopped, turned around, and walked up to the stand.

"How much for a paper?"

"Ehh, a nickel should do ya' right."

They made the exchange with the man behind the stand and walked away with today's edition of the _Wichita Eagle_.

The front page headline and article read as following:

_'STIGMATA KILLER' PREYS UPON WICHITA RESIDENTS_

_By Harry Giles_

_A SCANDAL has emerged involving the Wichita Police Department and their cover-up of the "Stigmata Killer", a serial murderer who has claimed six known victims in Wichita between May 20, 1957 and March 22, 1958. __The news of this killer's existence was exposed by an informant within the Wichita Police, whose name here will not be disclosed and instead will be called "Mark". Mark agreed to an interview with former New York Times reporter Harry Giles._

_GILES: What made you decide to become a whistleblower in this case? MARK: After the sixth murder victim turned up recently I decided 'enough is enough'. The way our police chief has handled this is unacceptable. We're not asking people to come forward with information, we're not asking the governor or the FBI for help. As a predictable result we're not making any headway in this case. That's why it's time for a change._

_GILES: What do you know about this string of murders? MARK: I brought with me today photocopies of all of the police files on these six murders so far. I've haven't had time to go through it all, but what I do know is the names of the six victims. It's my hope that by making their identities known I will be able to provide their families with some closure. They are: 1. Mason Schneider, age 31; 2. Dorothy Lippincott, age 43; 3. Ricardo Garcia, age 21; 4. Gregory Watson, age 24; 5. Arnold Higgins, age 51; 6. Katie McNamara, age 19._

_GILES: And I take it that it was the last victim in particular that moved you to the point of action? MARK: I don't have a daughter, but I do have a little sister, so what happened to Katie McNamara struck too close to home for me. I couldn't stop thinking: what if she's next? Now, I know that this killer doesn't seem to abide by any pattern, beside from his trademark M.O., but still._

_GILES: His...M.O? Would you mind explaining? MARK: Modus Operandi. M.O. for short. In police jargon it describes a situation where a serial criminal undertakes similar actions for multiple crimes, which if said criminal is caught for one such crime they can be linked to the others that they committed, via their M.O. In particular, serial killers might have a very specific way of killing someone. Or perhaps they mutilate the body in a certain way. When they do that, there's usually two explanations: first, their actions are motivated by some kind of sexual fetish or bloodlust. Second, they want each of their crimes to be linked back to a single culprit so they can make a name for themselves. Signs of sexual penetration have not been found on the bodies of the victims of the so-called Stigmata Killer (that's what we call him), and the victims were both male and female, of varying age groups. In addition, the violence inflicted upon the bodies is always limited to the exact same five piercings, and the relative racial non-uniformity of the victims suggests that this was not a crime motivated by hatred. Our conclusion, therefore, is that the Stigmata Killer does what he or she does for the infamy. That is, he wants to become famous. Now, I know that in exposing his string of crimes to the public I may be giving him exactly what he or she wants, but I think there are other concerns here which trump that._

_GILES: Five piercings? MARK: Yes. On each victim, both wrists are pierced, and then the spot on their legs immediately above their feet are pierced. It's done in such a way as to avoid breaking bone. Finally, a diagonal piercing on the side of their body is inflicted, though it hasn't always been consistent which side the piercing was done on. We believe all this is done to imitate the wounds of Jesus Christ during His crucifixion. In the Catholic tradition these wounds are referred to as the "stigmata". Therefore, the name we've given him is the Stigmata Killer. There are two extra factors which are quite telling: first, near the body, usually on the windshield of a car, the letters "I R N I" are scrawled. It is recorded in the Gospels that above the head of Jesus while on the cross the phrase "Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudeaorum", which means "Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews", was written. This is usually shortened to INRI. This inscription is present near the bodies, but it's deliberately backwards. That's significant. Secondly, all of the bodies have been found upside down. Now, in Christian tradition the Apostle Peter was crucified upside down. However, we believe that, similar to the backwards inscription, the inversion of the crucified form was done as a deliberate mockery. A criminal psychiatrist from Topeka whose help we sought in profiling the Stigmata Killer has speculated that the culprit has a deep-rooted antipathy towards the Christian faith, perhaps rooted in a negative childhood experience and/or perhaps connected to deviant tendencies which were met with harsh disapproval from a young age._

_GILES: How did the victims die? Did they suffer much? MARK: As far as we know, all of the victims were strangled to death before their bodies were mutilated. Thankfully, then, we can conclude that their suffering in their last moments was not as bad as the state of their bodies would suggest._

They stopped reading.

This was bad. Very bad. It was almost certain that a state-level or even federal investigation would follow. If they tried to offer up any more sacrifices under such circumstances, well, it would not bode well for them.

They knew what they had to do. They had to lay low. Months, years, however long it took until it was safe to go out and continue.

One day, I will finish, they thought. That's a promise. I've come this far...

They found a waste bin, stuffed the crumpled paper inside, and with that they were on their way elsewhere.

* * *

**Also Sprach Zarathustra: V: Earn Your Stripes**

* * *

**Thursday, September 27, 1962**

It'd taken them roughly four hours to get here, and they knew that later it'd take them another four hours to get back home.

For all of that, they'd have about two hours to enjoy the sights, sounds, and smells (yes indeed the smells) of the Kansas City Zoo, which was, ironically, located in the neighboring state of Missouri.

So far as Bonnie could remember this was the first time that she'd ever traveled out of state (with the obvious exception of every time she switched bodies with Tarokun, which happened a good bit per week). She'd come here with her classmates, for which reason the trip more or less wasn't optional. At first it sounded like fun, until she realized something:

There would probably be a tiger at the zoo. She knew what that would mean, and she was dreading it. Indeed, she'd already received some ribbing about it on the long bus ride here. It certainly didn't help that Jane was among the group, because Jane was sure to be the ringleader when it was time. How far they'd take the whole shtick Bonnie wouldn't know until it happened. Kids could be very cruel, as she knew firsthand by this time.

She'd considered wearing long sleeves. If she had, however, that would've drawn more attention to the matter and she would've shown just how conscious about it all she really was, which would open her up to even more taunting.

"Alright kids, pay attention. We're now coming up on the tiger exhibit."

_...You wanna switch now_?

"Can you take it?"

_I can, because I know I'm not the person being made fun of. Just look away. Don't listen. Come back after a few minutes, and it should be over with by then_.

They turned a corner and there he was.

Magnificent, pacing restlessly in his cage. The splendor and majesty of a house cat, except magnified fifty-fold. This was, truly, the king of the jungle. A solitary predator, terrifying. Beautiful. Its stripes mesmerizing, like the eyes on a peacock's tail feathers.

Stripes. That, dear reader, is the key word here. Or, rather, a spotted pattern. Perhaps more similar to that of a jaguar, but a tiger was the animal that came to mind the most.

"Three, two, one..."

_Switch_!

*vreeng*

Going instantaneously from a sitting to standing position was always a bit disorienting, but Nobutaro didn't stumble backwards or anything. For maybe a quarter of a second he lost his bearings but not long enough to make a scene.

He looked around. Knowing that the group was a couple yards ahead, he proceeding forward until he'd joined the group.

From the corner of her eye Jane gave "Bonnie" a vicious, self-righteous smirk.

She grabbed Bonnie's right arm, pulled it up, and pulled down the short sleeve so that her armpit was showing. Nobutaro did not resist.

Bonnie's under-arm had no slight number of small spots, light brown in color. They were freckles of a sort, which together formed a pattern that resembled:

"Stripes!" Jane called out. "Look Mr. Tiger, Bonnie has stripes too! Maybe you and her can get married!"

It would not be appropriate to say that Nobutaro "grinned and bore it" because he certainly was not grinning.

A boy named Oscar grabbed Bonnie's other arm and did the same thing.

"Look," he said, "they even match! Both arms match!"

Though many of them had seen the sight before, the kids gathered around to take a look once more at Bonnie's strangely featured underarms.

My arms are getting tired, Nobutaro thought sullenly.

To understand the situation, one must go back some, a few months.

* * *

**Tuesday, March 6, 1962**

Stacey dug the spatula under the sizzling pancakes and lifted them before setting them down onto the large, highly reflective red plate. Having recently gone over the respective matter in science class, Bonnie thought that the plate looked like a blood vessel. But that was neither here nor there.

Each of the four of them grabbed a pancake, put it on their own plates, and sat down at the table. At the center of the table was milk, butter, and a bottle of maple syrup.

They helped themselves accordingly; today was Shrove Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday (marking the beginning of Lent season). In predominantly Catholic areas, today was also known as Mardi Gras. The day of eating fatty foods before the long season of abstinence began. Granted, Bonnie and Gordy were not expected to observe Lent. But for the grown-ups it was basically a diet that lasted until Easter. Many people also gave up such indulgences as smoking, coffee, and television, along with such vices as swearing.

_How can you eat that without syrup_?

"I put syrup on it," she said under her breath. "I just don't put a river of syrup on it like you would."

_Pancakes taste better with syrup. The tiny bit you're putting on there basically amounts to a dry pancake_.

"I'd rather watch my weight," Bonnie said.

_Why? It's not like you're fat_.

"You're skinnier than me, and you're a boy," she retorted.

_That's where you set the bar? Really? You know that article we read the other day about women who eat so little they get sick_?

"Calm down, sheesh. Putting a little less syrup on my pancakes does not make me like those women. And it's not like I'm gonna be fasting for Lent, so I don't need the extra calories or anything."

"...So," Stacey said to her husband, "I take it you're going to be home earlier from now on?"

Chad nodded. "Until after Easter, yeah. Speaking of which, me and the guys are gonna have a big blow-out at the hall tonight. So I'm gonna be coming in."

Stacey nodded. "I'll be sure to fix less for supper."

There was an awkward pause. Chad knew how much his frequent after-work trips to the billiards hall with Gay and Kevin annoyed the heck out of his wife, but it wasn't something he wanted to give up. To his credit, they did it less now than they used to around their peak in 1956 and 1957. They'd decided to cut back partially because Chad wanted to spend more time with his wife, and because Kevin had the misfortune of getting mugged at gunpoint right outside the hall one night. Gay, a bachelor like Kevin, had been the one most disappointed by this development. At the time he really didn't have much to do with his life besides go out drinking with his buddies.

"Hey, dad," Gordy said, breaking the silence and oblivious to those things unspoken. "I know how to type now. Isn't that cool?"

Chad wasn't quite sure what to think of that. So he just nodded. "Good for you, son."

I just hope you don't end up as somebody's secretary, he thought with a touch of disdain.

Disappointed by that tepid reaction, Gordy said:

"...That's it?"

Chad shrugged. "What else is there to say? I fail to see what use there is for typing except for women."

Silence.

Soon it was time for the two kids to go to school, and Chad went to work.

* * *

"Corner pocket, corner pocket..."

*bick*

Nope.

"Eh, that was a long shot anyway," Gay said.

Kevin stood up straight. "Sorry, guess I'm a little rusty. Your turn Mr. Cartwright."

And then, it began. In the center room a young woman took the stage and began reciting something that she'd written herself.

"One nation flimflammed into taking a sucker's deal...wallop the working man on the back of the head, knock the good sense out of him, soon he needs a cue card to vote...but who's selling the cards, Jack?"

As soon as she took a pause the teenage/young adult audience began snapping.

"The pied piper plays his piece through your radio set. Fat cats hand you your rifle, soon you're whistling to a manufactured tune. Ain't got nothing left but a cheap drumset and your pride as a free citizen. 'Tis freedom I tell ya! Freedom!"

They started laughing and then snapped their fingers once more.

"...What is this drivel?" Chad asked.

"Young people like it," Kevin said. "They call it Beat poetry."

"Well did they have to come here to do it?" Gay said, throwing his hands into the air in bewilderment.

"And why are they snapping their fingers?" Chad asked.

"It's like clapping," Kevin said.

"So why don't they just clap like normal people, then?" Gay asked.

"Aww, you don't like it, Mr. Callaghan?"

"What's there to like? A bunch of Shakespeare wannabes, is all they are."

"The point of it is you write it yourself. So maybe it's not the best poetry, but it's yours. They show it off to each other in settings like this and get feedback."

"...So they just write poems about anything?" Chad asked.

"Well, no, there's an underlying theme in all of their works," Kevin said. "Their focus is to stand out and reject normal adult society."

"Why would they want to do that?" Chad asked.

"They say we all live meaningless existences slaving all day at menial jobs so that some big wigs will pay us a miniscule wage for our effort."

"...So basically they're commies," Gay said.

Kevin shrugged. "I don't think criticizing the way things are now necessarily makes you a communist. Now, I'm sure many of them are. But Mr. Callaghan, I know you sometimes complain about work. Does the fact that you've done so make you a card-carrying red?"

Gay thought about that for a moment. "No of course not. So what you're saying is, they're just blowing off steam."

"Basically yeah. I'm sure this is a fad, and those kids out there will grow out of it sooner or later."

"I don't know if 'kids' would be the right word," Chad said, taking a peek through the divider. "Some of them look like they could be in their twenties. A bunch of overgrown man-children if you ask me. Why, in my day..."

They cut him off there, not wanting to be the audience for another one of Chad's half-drunken soliloquys.

Chad downed another shot of bourbon on the rocks (that is, with ice).

He made his move. The cue ball only hit one ball, which rolled and bounded somewhat in response.

It was Gay's turn.

"...You know, it really does p*ss me off though," Chad said. "Makes me want to go clock one of them in the jaw. Life always has and always is going to objectively suck no matter what, but this was a d*mn good time to be born into if any. We've never had more opportunities for leisure, better health, plentiful food, clean drinking water, any of that. Right here and now is it. The best things have ever been. And I'm sure it's all going to be uphill from here. So what the h*ll are those snot nosed brats complaining about? And for what? What's the alternative, huh? Like they're...rebelling just for the sake of rebellion!"

"That's exactly the point of it," Kevin said.

Gay had bent in close to get his next shot exactly right. But now he sighed and stood upright.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But with all this racket I just can't focus. I'm done."

"Huh? But we just got here!" Kevin protested.

Gay smirked. "I said I wasn't gonna play, not that I wasn't gonna talk."

"That's the spirit!" Chad said, patting him on the back. "The night's still young, after all. So have I ever told you guys about the time my cousin Bud..."

* * *

**Thursday, March 8, 1962**

It was still on her forehead when she showed up for school.

The smudge. In the shape of a cross. She, her mom, and her dad received the mark last night at their church from the Reverend.

It was a shock, then, when she realized that most of the other kids did not.

When she sat down in math class, she who a boy and a girl near her whispering:

"Hey, what's that on her face?"

"My dad says Catholics have it. He says it's the mark of the beast."

"The what?"

"The mark of the beast. My dad says Catholics are going to hell because they put that on their foreheads."

"Why?"

"Dunno. Something about it says in the Bible you go to hell if you have the mark of the beast."

"But Bonnie's not Catholic, I don't think."

"Well she must be. I mean, look."

I'm what? Bonnie thought. No, that's...the Reverend put this on me. He wouldn't send me to hell. He's a man of God.

She looked around.

And then she spotted it, out of the corner of her eye.

"Psst, Jane," she said.

Jane faced her, revealing the ashen cross on her own forehead.

Aha, I knew it, Bonnie thought, relieved.

_If you're going to hell, Jane's going to be in there with you. How's that make you feel_?

"Being stuck with Jane forever? I think that's hell enough already."

* * *

**Sunday, April 22, 1962**

"Turn now please to number 87 in your hymnal."

She gave it a minute, and then Mrs. Matthews began to play, as the congregation sang along:

"Welcome happy morning! age to age shall say: Hell today is vanquished, heav'n is won today! Lo! the dead is living, God for ever more! Him, their true Creator, all his works adore!"

The music subsided.

"Today is a glorious day," Rev. Norquist said. "We celebrate the triumph of our Lord and Savior over the power of the grave. We were once dead in our sin and our trespasses. But while we were still sinners Jesus died for us. Alleluia!"

"Alleluia!"

"Today is a special day also because we celebrate that a boy all the way from Japan is born again. He cannot be here with us today, unfortunately, but Bonnie, who is his pen pal, has agreed to receive baptism on his behalf."

Bonnie, wearing a baptismal white gown, stepped into the basin filled with water that had been prepared for this event.

Cold, she thought with a wince, but nonetheless stepping deeper and deeper into it until it was up well past her waist.

"Now's the time," she whispered. "If you're gonna do it-

*vreeng*

Nobutaro let out a shiver.

He looked out at the audience. Sitting in the front row was Bonnie's parents and Gordy.

Rev. Norquist stepped into the water as well.

"Bonnie," he said, "does the boy Nobutaro understand the significance of the rite of baptism?"

Nobutaro nodded. "He does."

"Has he called upon the name of the Lord, to save him of his sins?"

"He has."

The Reverend nodded. "Standing in for him, Bonnie, I do now baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the...

A moment later Nobutaro was plunged into the depths, his nose plugged by the Reverend's hand.

And then he came up, dripping wet from the hair down.

And then the thunderous applause commenced.

_How do you feel_?

"...I don't know. Not sure if I feel any different or not."

He stepped out of the basin and headed into the back to change before returning to the audience. At this point he switched back with Bonnie.

"You know what this makes me want to do?"

_What_?

"Go swimming."

* * *

**Friday, June 1, 1962**

There was a public pool in Broadway. In typical fashion for the time, it was for whites only. All things considered it was unusually large.

As the school season was nearing its end, Bonnie asked her mother to take her into Wichita proper to go shopping. They ended up coming home with a one-piece swimsuit, a large beach towel, goggles, and even fins.

She'd gone to the pool a few years before. She more or less remembered how to swim.

That's why when her parents dropped her off five minutes ago, she didn't feel like she had anything to worry about.

She was about to head over to the deep end when-

_Hold on. What are you doing_?

"I'm gonna jump off the diving board."

_Don't you think you ought to make sure you can actually swim first_?

"Huh? What are you talking about? Of course I can swim!"

_That was a good while back. Shouldn't you make sure you're still good in the water before entering the deep side of the pool_?

She sighed, exasperated. "Fine."

She climbed down the steps into the shallow end until the water was up to her neck. "See?"

Nope. Take your feet off the ground.

Bonnie did so. In two seconds her head was under water.

She struggled for a brief moment but then was able to emerge and keep her head afloat by way of treading water, and then finally stood up straight.

"...See now?"

_Yes. But you wouldn't have been able to stand up in the deep end. What if something had happened_?

"Are you saying I shouldn't swim over there?"

_No. I'm saying you should warm up a little first by swimming where it's safe. Then you can go to the deep end_.

"Hey Bonnie."

Bonnie turned her head. Standing there was Gordy, in swim trunks.

Please don't tell me I have to babysit him, she thought.

_Can he swim_?

"I honestly don't know."

She looked at Gordy and raised her head to get his attention. "Hey Gordy, can you come to me?"

_What are you doing_?

"Relax," she said to Tarokun, "It's shallow enough that I can stand up, right? So if he sinks I can take him to safety."

Gordy cannonballed into the water and swam to Bonnie, splashing water at her face in the process.

"Can you stand up?" she asked.

He tried but just ended up submerged. He then stood on his tiptoes and tilted his head. Able to breathe again, he snorted hard to get the irritating chlorinated water out of his nostrils. But it was still in his mouth, to his chagrin, he so swam up to the steps and began to walk out of the pool.

Bonnie then watched at a launched a spitball into the hedges.

_Well, at least he didn't do it in the pool_.

"Gosh no, I would be so humiliated," she said.

_Even worse than if he peed in the pool_?

"Nooooo, gross," she said, trying to keep herself from visualizing such a horrific event.

_You know, there are little kids swimming in this pool. I'll bet that some of them peed in it_.

"Eeeeeeewwww, why would you tell me that?!"

She get out of the pool as fast as she could as Nobutaro just laughed from across Japan.

And so, as Gordy got back into the water and made his laps from one end to the other (horizontally, not vertically heading into the deep end, which would've been an impossibly long swim for him anyways), Bonnie just watched from a pool chair.

"Thanks for ruining it," she muttered.

_...Hey. If you're not going to swim, then can I_?

"Huh?"

_That water looks mighty fine. I'm sure it looks even better from the bottom of the pool. You are wearing goggles, after all. Can I swim_?

"What am I supposed to do?"

_Well, you can watch, or you can just sit_.

"Okay. I guess since I won't be swimming at least one of us should get something out of this trip."

*vreeng*

He stood up, felt the hot pavement on his feet.

Youch, he thought.

He quickly jumped into the pool and gave himself a couple of seconds to adjust once more to the cold temperature. He put on Bonnie's goggles. With them everything had a weird tint. But he remembered from a while back what happened when Bonnie tried to open her eyes underwater without them, and he wasn't keen to repeat that mistake.

He took in a deep breath and took the plunge.

Immediately he got the impression that being under the water was like being on another planet. He could feel the hair on his head rising as he went deeper. A bizarre light show seemed to play out on the surface layer above. Wiggling white lines. Quite beautiful.

But he didn't dally on that for too long.

The pool bed was hard. Concrete. Jagged and uneven. He even knocked on it to see for himself. It was of uniform elevation for a couple feet out, and then it began to sink into a deep crevice that was the deep end.

He maneuvered on the pool bed with grace, looking around to see if he could find anything interesting. Maybe some pool toys that somebody dropped? An earring, perhaps?

He was reminded of the old(ish) cartoon movie Peter Pan, and the novel "Treasure Island". The idea that there might be something recoverable on the pool bed, like sunken treasure, captivated his imagination in that moment.

He surfaced, having run out of air. But within seconds he was back down under the water, keen to continue his search.

He turned around. Sure enough, he could see Gordy above him swimming across the pool. He knew he couldn't entirely forget about Bonnie's little brother as he had his own fun.

After another twenty five seconds he surfaced, coughing.

There was nothing on the shallow end. What that meant was-

"Hey Bonnie," Gordy said, now mostly out of the water, sitting on the edge, said. "Can I try your goggles?"

"If I let you, will you be careful not to lose them?" Nobutaro pressed.

"Yeah. I'll be careful."

Nobutaro took them off, walked across the pool, handed them over, and then got out, returning to where Bonnie had been sitting earlier.

_...That looked pretty fun_.

"Hmm?"

_I think I'd like to give it a try_.

"Ehh? I thought you were worried about-

_Well I'm already covered in it anyways, if anybody had even done it in the pool in the first place. It doesn't matter now_.

"I'm glad to hear that. You wanna do it when Gordy's done?"

_Yeah_.

About fifteen minutes later Gordy handed them back, and Bonnie went searching in the deep end. To their shock, they managed to find...

Glasses.

Bonnie sat down and tried them on.

_Ow_.

She took them off again and rubbed her eyes. "These are really strong."

_Though, I guess you could take out the lens and wear them just to look smart_.

Bonnie laughed. "What kind of idiot would go around like that?" (More than a half-century later a certain suspiciously intelligent kid with glasses sneezed suddenly.)

But anyways, they decided to do the right thing and submit the glasses to Lost and Found. And then they enjoyed the rest of their afternoon at the pool.

* * *

After having showered to rinse off the smell of chlorine and the germs in the pool, Bonnie flicked the switch and her bedroom lamp turned off.

She lied awake on top of her sheets, staring up at the ceiling.

"Phew, I'm tired. How about you?"

_Well, my body didn't swim any, but I guess I'm usually tired around this time same as you_.

"Those glasses though, why would a person bring something like that into the water in the first place?"

_I don't know. Maybe a kid grabbed them and threw them in_.

She thought about it for a second and then:

"Nah, they were dead smack in the center of the deep end. A young child couldn't throw it that far."

There was a pause.

_Bonnie_?

"Yeah?"

_I don't think I've ever thanked you_.

"Huh? For what?"

_I got to swim today. If I'd never met you, I might not have ever known what that was like. Because of you I've managed to have more adventures than I can_ _count_._ Even if I were to die tonight, I'd like to think that my life wouldn't have been totally wasted_...

"Don't talk like that. You're making me feel sad."

_Sorry_.

Another pause.

"Sometimes I still lay awake at night, and I wonder why."

_Why what_?

"Why you and I met in the first place."

_Huh_?

"I mean, we don't have anything in common. There are billions and billions of people in this world. Why me?"

_...Do you regret it? Us having met_.

She shook her head. "Never."

_Me neither. I guess then we'll just have to call it a miracle_.

"Like when you make a wish and it comes true?"

_Yeah, like that...Bonnie, I'm sure you don't remember, but when I first met you, you were screaming and frightened_.

"What? When was that?"

_The day of your confirmation. I don't know when that was exactly, but it was the day that I first became aware of your existence. I was...maybe a few months old, still just a baby myself_.

"So you've pretty much known me all your life?"

_I guess you could say that, yeah. That you and I met, it wasn't because of any conscious wishing on my part. It just happened, for one reason or another...I refuse to believe something like that was the product of mere coincidence._

There was another pause. And then finally:

_Goodnight Bonnie_.

"Goodnight, Tarokun."

* * *

**Saturday, August 18, 1962**

Whelp, this was it. After a good two and a half months of leisurely swimming, it was almost time for school to start back up. This would be Bonnie's last day up here for the rest of the year.

Gordy hadn't come with her today, so she didn't have to keep an eye out for him as she swam. It was all too perfect.

I need to make the most of today, she thought.

Over the course of the past two months she'd gotten physically stronger. Coming home exhausted most of the time had its benefits in the long run. Swimming was fairly intensive exercise. She knew, of course, that she was going to lose that as soon as school started up.

For whatever reason that filled her with disappointment. She felt like she'd achieved something this summer. When she told her parents about it they didn't exactly approve, saying it wasn't ladylike of her to be into athletics, but nonetheless she wanted to continue. That feeling of satisfaction after a good session, it was amazing.

She wondered: could she swim so much in one day that she could get just a little bit stronger before she had to give it all up?

Nobutaro, looking on these past two months, couldn't help but feel a tinge of jealousy. His own body, he knew, didn't have that same opportunity to get whipped into good shape. He would never be as fit or nimble as Bonnie was now. Regardless, he agreed wholeheartedly that for Bonnie to totally go back to the way she was before would've been a waste.

Bonnie approached the diving board. She put her goggles down over her eyes and prepared to bungee off.

A spring took to the soles of her feet and to her tiptoes. Soon she was bouncing, and then finally she made the dive.

In a single fluid movement she entered the water and proceeded forward, determined to reach the shallow end. There was a lifeguard on hand, so if she wore herself out partway and was unable to finish it would not spell certain death.

_You know, you could always join the track team at school_.

Don't distract me, she thought with annoyance as she continued, her head still underwater.

Truth be told she'd already considered that. But at this time there were no female members of such, and she wasn't sure whether she'd be accepted into their ranks even if she applied.

Finally she took her feet down, felt the bottom of the pool, and stood up straight.

Panting, she slowly proceeded forwards until she reached the steps and walked out of the pool.

She fell to her knees, watching her long shadow and the dripping water.

Soon it became too hot for her knees so she stood up and stepped into the wet spot she'd made, which was cooler.

"Aw man I have water in my ears."

She tipped her head sideways and raised her hand over her head to cup her ear.

In the process, she left her underarm exposed to whatever bystander might pass by within the next few seconds. And as it so happened, that person was:

"Bonnie?"

Bonnie looked up and faced Jane.

"Hi Jane," she said with annoyance.

"What's with your arm."

"Huh?"

Jane pointed.

Bonnie looked down at the brown spots that she hadn't really paid much attention to before.

She raised her arm to take a good look, and in the process granting Jane another peek.

Jane burst out laughing while pointing derisively.

"You got tiger stripes Bonnie!" she declared.

And that was how the whole mess got started.

* * *

School started back up two days later. Had it been a couple of weeks, maybe, just maybe Jane would've forgotten. But nope.

Soon every kid in school had heard about Bonnie's spotted underarms.

She knew it wasn't just a rash; she vaguely recalled having had those spots since she was little, after all.

As her 11th birthday approached she tried to put her present humiliating circumstances aside and worked up the courage to apply for the track team.

As she expected, the coach didn't take her seriously and dismissed her rather rudely. Finally...

* * *

**Thursday, August 30, 1962**

Clad in her pajamas now, Bonnie looked at herself in the bathroom mirror.

Her shirt (light blue with vertical white stripes) was long-sleeve, so as much as she wanted to she couldn't take another look at her spots right now.

Somebody had the great idea that today was going to be "paint brown dots on your armpit day". Bonnie's classmates were a little too happy to show it off, just to mess with her.

_...Hey_.

Startled, Bonnie protested: "W-Wait a minute, you weren't looking at me while-

_What? No! I waited for you to finish and get dressed, fair and square_.

"Okay then."

There was a pause. Bonnie stared at herself once more. And then she got the nerve to blurt out:

"Do you think I'm ugly?"

_No_.

A very blunt answer. She was a little disappointed, to be honest.

_Why? Were you fishing for compliments? This isn't like you. Why should you give a mule's behind what anyone thinks_?

She shook her head. "You wouldn't understand."

_Oh? And why not_?

"Because you're a boy."

_Ouch_.

"I'm serious, you know. A woman should pride herself on her appearance."

_...This isn't about the teasing_.

She shook her head. "Y-Yes it is."

_Bonnie, come on. This is me we're talking about. I can feel it right away. This is about the track team_.

"You're wrong!"

_I'm not! Bonnie, what part of womanhood means you can't participate in sports and running_?

"I-I don't..."

_If you're not going to put your body to good use, I will. I'll get myself on the track team and become a star athlete. We both know I can't do anything of the sort in my own body, after all_.

She snickered. "Do you even hear yourself?"

_Well? Is it any more ridiculous than you deciding that you can't do this_?

She sighed. "If you can get me put on the track team, I'll be happy to put in all the work myself. But I'm telling you, it's not going to happen. Coach Bradley isn't going to budge."

_Then you change his mind, darn it! Bonnie, you and I switch places all the time, right? That means you've been a freaking boy before! You already do the impossible everyday! Something like this? It's nothing! Less than nothing, actually_.

She smiled. "Thanks. For trying to make me feel better. But seriously, how are you going to pull something like this off?"

You'll find out tomorrow. But I'm going to need you to say you're okay with what I have planned.

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Friday, August 31, 1962**

*knock knock*

Coach Bradley was in his small office space going through signed permission slips from the parents of the baseball club members allowing him to take them to play a match in a town 60 miles outside of Wichita.

He stood up, walked around his desk, and approached the door.

He turned the knob and opened it.

There was the girl from two days ago. What was her name again?

He sighed. "I told you already. Go aw-

*oof*

Bonnie tackled him. Because of her lower angle, she had a gravity advantage despite her lesser weight. But most importantly, he absolutely did not see it coming.

He fell over backwards onto his rear end.

"W-What the h*ll are you-

Second wave incoming. She tackled him once more and tried to pin him to the ground.

He rolled around and got on top of her, pressing against the girl's shoulder's so she couldn't move.

His face was bright red. He was hopping mad that this little runt actually had the audacity to-

Bonnie rolled her legs up and left and pushed against the coach's side as hard as possible, pressing into a sensitive spot. He let off and she used the opportunity to slip free, standing up.

He stood up.

"Kid," he said, popping his knuckles, "looks like you need a good whipping."

He tried to grab her hair. She pivoted to her left and dodged. He tried once more and again she dodged him.

She raised her fists as though to make a boxing motion.

"What do you want?!" he barked, getting angrier by the second.

"I'm not leaving until you take me seriously!" she declared. "You think I don't have what it takes? You don't know me! Shouldn't I at least have the chance to prove myself before you decide that I'm not enough? You give the boys a chance! So why won't you take a chance on me?! Is it because of who I am? Am I not good enough, just because of the way I was born?!"

She was beginning to tear up. But she didn't look away. Rather, she stared him down (or, rather, up, considering the difference in height).

He relaxed. "That's what this is about?"

"Yes!"

He went up to the door and shut it. Then he faced her again.

Crap, Nobutaro (who'd been the one in control) thought. I'm about to get the stuffing knocked out of me.

"...One chance."

"Huh?"

"You heard me. This Monday. Come in and I'll see what you've got. If I don't like what I see, and I doubt that I will, then..."

"T-Thank you so much!" he/she burst out.

Nobutaro extended his hand. The coach reluctantly shook it.

And with that, Nobutaro opened the door and headed back outside.

*vreeng*

Bonnie wiped her eyes.

_Happy birthday, Bonnie_.

That Monday, the 3rd of September, she ran as fast and hard as she could and gave it all she got for the coach, and so managed to secure her position as Broadway Elementary's first female track team member, about 10 years before the passage of the Title IX bill by Congress which, among other things, secured the rights of girls to partake in school sporting activities.

She was not the team's best member. She participated while at a biological disadvantage. But her dedication kept her from falling so far behind as to get dropped. Coach Bradley soon came to recognize and respect the effort that she was putting into it. Four months later there was an evaluation; of the eight people on the team, she ended up being ranked better than two boys (though she still lagged behind five boys, all of them naturally bigger and faster than her). Those two boys, however, were subsequently dropped from the team, putting her in last, a status that she was unable to shake.

* * *

Bonnie was asleep.

This was usually the time that he went to sleep as well. Sometimes, when they were lucky, they might catch the same dream and discuss it the next morning. His personal favorite was the one where they were hunters in a jungle arguing over whether to free a netted lion. Why the puny net was able to keep a lion trapped he did not know. Dream logic at its finest.

But anyways, there was something he was curious about.

He walked across the room and up to the mirror in the corner, which had been placed there years and years ago. Sure enough, he'd "grown into it" since.

He grabbed the sleeve of his raggedy shirt and pulled it up. Then he lifted his arm and observed.

He was not mistaken.

He tried the same thing with his other arm. The result was the same.

He and Bonnie had the same spots.

He laughed, amused at the situation. "What are the odds of that happening? Hey Bon-

He then remembered.

It was better that he waited until morning to tell her about this.

Well, morning from her perspective. For him it already was quite dang bright outside.

He crawled into his futon and planted his face into the wall so as to block out the light best he could.

Then he closed his eyes.

But he was too excited to sleep.

We have the same spots, he thought, again and again. How cool is that?

Where did spots come from? If they were something that some people had but not others, then did it concern the genetic principle of inheritance?

Bonnie must've inherited her spots from her family. Maybe she had an uncle with them or something.

But if so, then in Nobutaro's family there must've been somebody like that as well.

Or...did she transfer her spots to me? he thought.

No. That was ridiculous. They'd never come across anything that would suggest such a "transfer" was possible. What next? He'd wake up with her long brown hair? Absurd.

Maybe he got his spots from...

Mother?

Unable to sleep anyways, he got up. He walked over to the place on the wall where an old picture of a youthful Japanese woman in a kimono was taped up.

According to Mr. Suzuki, that woman was his mother, now deceased. Her name was Naoko Hanazawa, a native of rural Kyushu who'd worked as a geisha in Yokosuka.

And his father was...

Unknown. Unknown name. Unknown face. Unknown identity. Could've been just about anyone.

If he just knew that, then he'd know what his last name was. Always inherited from the father. Everybody had one in theory, because everyone had a father. But since he knew it, did that mean he'd just have to settle with...

"Nobutaro Hanazawa."

Didn't have a bad ring to it, he had to admit.

Whoever his father was...

"Maybe I inherited these spots from him?" he wondered out loud.

He returned to the mirror and had another look.

And then something very peculiar caught his eye.

He lowered his arm and took a closer look at his face in the mirror.

Was that...

"Stubble?"

Nobutaro, age 11, was beginning to show signs of facial hair.

* * *

("Be Thou My Vision" by Kalafina, feat. Yuki Kajiura, instrumentals in "Celtic" style)

_Bi thusa mo shuile a ri mhor na nduil_

_Lion thusa mo bheatha, mo cheadfai's mo stuaim_

_Bi thusa i m'aigne gach oiche's gach la_

_Im chodladh no im dhuiseacht lion me le do gra_

_Bi thusa mo threoru i mbriathar is i mbeart_

_Fan thusa go deo liom is coinnigh me ceart_

_Glac curam mar athair is eist le mo ghui_

_Is tabhair domhsa ait conai istigh i do chroi_

* * *

(Author's note to the reader: I apologize for the slow pacing. Soon it'll pick up to them hunting down serial killers and whatnot. If you've read "The Hand That Grabbed Her Ankle" then you should already have a pretty good idea of how this ends. But as for this aspect of the story, the slow development of the relationship between Nobutaro and Bonnie, well, I would feel personally dissatisfied with my own work if I neglected to write about that. As always, if you enjoy reading this then please leave a comment and tell me your thoughts. Thank you for reading!)

**To Be Continued**


	6. Chapter 6

**An Ufotable Production**

**Friday, November 22, 1963**

The grainy camera reel zoomed in to the man, Malcolm Kilduff, who was in that moment acting press secretary for the Office of the POTUS. The time was 1:33 PM.

"John F. Kennedy died at approximately one o'clock, central standard time, today here in Dallas. He died of a gunshot wound in the brain."

"Dear G*d no..."

His hands were trembling as he set down his whiskey glass.

The bartender stopped what he was doing, bowed his head, and uttered a silent prayer between breaths for the now-dead President.

"...I have no other details regarding the assassination of the President."

"BULLS**T! It was the d*mned RUSSIANS! They KILLED the President and EVERYBODY KNOWS it!"

The angry man slammed his fists into the table while the man next to him simply started crying.

Every eye in the bar was fixed on the television screens hanging overhead, all broadcasting on the same channel.

The angry man stood up and faced the other patrons. "You all know what this is? This is WAR! That's what this is!"

"Hey, buddy, knock it off, will ya?" the bartender scolded.

"Hey screw you man, the President's been shot! The Russians killed him!"

"We don't know that, sheesh."

"Then who did it, huh? I'll tell you what's happening Joe. The commies are staging a coup! Johnson's next, and then there'll be nobody left to stop the Red army from landing off of New York and D.C."

"Yeah? Well, I'll believe it when I see it. Until then, I'm gonna go about my day same way I always do. Ain't no point hollering like a big baby over what you don't know."

With a hint of disgust the angry man slapped some dollar bills onto the table. "Here ya go. Keep the change."

He turned once more to the people in the booths and at the tables, whose emotions were starting to get roused now.

"I'll be d*mned if I just sit around and let the Reds get away with this! No sirs, I'm gonna give 'em hell! Who's with me?!"

Several guys raised their hands.

But another guy said: "How are we gonna do that?"

The angry man grinned. "I heard a rumor floating around, there's one of them Russkies here in town. A KGB spy, I'll bet. Come with me and I know how we can find where he lives."

Hooting and cheering, he and three other drunk guys left the bar, all got into his car, and drove off wielding hunting rifles and sawed off shotguns.

* * *

The man they were going after was named Yuriy Hrytsuk, age 45, a Ukrainian immigrant. His first name was usually spelled "Yuri", which added to the misconception of his national origin. Ironically, he was not only not a communist, but in fact his father had been a Ukrainian Orthodox priest who took up arms to fight in the (anti-Bolshevik) White Army during the Russian Civil War, and the family had fled to the West after their side lost. Yuri had been taught growing up to keep an eye open for anybody sneaking up behind him, lest one of "Stalin's men" catch him by surprise. There was probably nowhere on earth Soviet agents/assassins couldn't reach, and in a country like the United States it was exceptionally easy for less than savory foreign elements to slip into the large pool of citizens/residents undetected.

He lived in the office space that he rented out for cheap, which was also his workshop, "Studio Yuri". He ran a seasonal business producing traditional Ukrainian Easter eggs, a highly lavish and sophisticated art form known as pysanka. Around Easter time he was able to sell these to local households for a rate of $3 per egg, each belonging to one out of 100 designs that he prepared for that year's batch. Usually about 3,600 households bought such artisan decorated eggs from him, though his profits were diminished by the need to deliver the eggs to each household, a task that he had to lease out every year. In the end, the amount that he brought in wasn't quite enough to live on, so he had to supplement his income as a piano teacher for children (he also worked three weeks out of the year doing odd jobs such as cutting people's grass and doing basic maintenance work on their homes).

He had a reputation as a reserved individual who didn't have many friends. None of his family lived in the Wichita area. He had never married, nor had any children to his name. By most accounts, he lived a rather dull and unaccomplished life.

It was the middle of the night when they pulled up into the mostly vacant lot (with only Yuri's truck being present) and they got out.

"He's in there?" one of them asked, pointing to the small, one-story building/domicile in front of them.

"He should be," the angry man from earlier, whose name was Fred, said. "Now, you go take the back. Make sure he can't run."

As the guy he was talking to began walking around the building, Fred and the two remaining guys approached the front door.

He turned to his two associates. "Alright, when I count to three, we're all gonna kick this door down."

"One..."

"Two..."

"THREE!"

*bam*

They entered, turning their flashlights on and having their guns ready at their sides. They didn't know whether this evil Russian commie was armed or not, but they weren't about to take any chances.

They peered into Yuri's bedroom. By the looks of things there was nobody in there. But Fred figured he might've been hiding under the bed or something, or perhaps still asleep under the covers, so he took the initiative of entering, his gun raised.

The three of them stepped foot inside the bedroom, and then-

A muffled scream.

They turned their flashlights.

One of the three had his throat slit.

The man behind him, the one who had slit the guy's throat in the first place, dashed forward, planting his blade into the other guy's heart and then just as rapidly removing his weapon from such.

Fred, the last man standing, pointed his gun at Yuri and fired.

*BLAM*

However, his shot missed because Yuri pivoted rapidly in the second before the trigger was pulled. And then:

"AAAAAAHHH!"

Two out of five of his fingertips were slashed off in one swift movement. Fred dropped his gun to the floor, and then Yuri slammed him into the wall, pointing the knife at his throat. A highly vulnerable target area, could've been pierced with ease, with a very lethal outcome for the only one of Yuri's four assailants who was now still alive (the guy who went around back had been the first to stumble across Yuri, who slit his throat).

"Who are you?!" Yuri demanded in perfect English. "KGB?"

KGB, Fred thought. So this Yuri fellow really is a spy?

Yuri stuck his hand down Fred's back pocket and pulled out a wallet.

He stepped backwards carefully away from Fred so he could turn the light switch and examine the contents of the wallet in the light.

The lights now being on, and Fred now realizing that his comrades were dead, eyed the gun he'd dropped.

He made a dive for it.

He was able to point the weapon vaguely at Yuri (at his leg area), but before he could fire the weapon was kicked out of his hand.

Yuri pinned him down to the floor and once more held the knife to Fred's throat.

"You even have an American Driver's License," Yuri said. "Impressive. Fred Knauss. I probably would've gone with something a little more Anglo, but whatever. Who's your commanding officer?"

"H-Huh...?"

"WHO is your commanding officer?!" Yuri barked.

"I don't know what ya mean!" Fred protested. "Commanding Officer...? I wasn't in the war you dolt! Army wouldn't have me 'cause they said I was flatfooted!"

"Playing dumb, huh? Well, let's see how long you're willing to keep that up when I begin slicing you piece by piece, until there's nothing left of you! Don't worry though, I'll save your mouth for last. I need you to talk, after all."

He grabbed one of Fred's fingers and began sawing away with his knife.

Fred screamed.

"Ready to talk?!"

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT YA WANT ME TO SAY!" Fred roared, bawling his eyes out. "What do you want from me?!"

"I'll ask you again. Are you KGB?!"

"What? No! I ain't no Red! That's the honest truth, on my mother's grave!"

Yuri blinked.

He seems much too stupid to be KGB, he thought. And his gunmanship was sloppy. Much too sloppy. Granted, I was sloppy too. It's been too long since I've been in the game.

"...I believe you."

Relief swept over Fred's face. He actually thought he was about to be let go.

"Unfortunately for you, that means I have no further reason to keep you alive."

Yuri then proceeded to kill Fred with the same swift execution as had marked his previous three victims tonight.

He stood up and sighed.

Blood everywhere. Even bits of a guy's fingers. A real mess. Cleaning up something like this was going to take a lot of time and effort. But he couldn't even think about going back to bed until he'd done so. In all probability he would have to spend the rest of the night dealing with this.

This was the first time something like this had happened. They'd come to him in his own home. He thought for sure the KGB had caught up to him, years after his retirement from the field, though he'd broken off all contact with friends and family and moved to a secluded locale deep in the American interior. He'd even took the step of changing his last name on legal documents.

The shocking news announcement from earlier today, about the assassination of President Kennedy, was enough to get him to get in contact with his old handler. He suspected this had been orchestrated by the Soviets to provoke a popular fury against Slavic-American populations (suspected of communist sympathies/loyalties), which would provide their operatives with a cover for going directly after defectors and dissidents living in the US. He called to receive assurances that his family would receive protection.

However, whenever he saw the car full of armed men show up he honestly thought the phone call had been intercepted and that in the process he'd given up his location. He'd half-expected something like this to happen. What he didn't expect was for his attackers to be local people unconnected in any way to the Soviet intelligence apparatus. He had to reconsider now to what degree it was safe for someone like him to frequent public places in the coming days/weeks.

For the time being his one and only concern was the cover-up. This seemed to be a rashly contrived plan of attack against him by a few guys. The likelihood that there would be any kind of follow-up attack was slim to none. If he simply erased all evidence of this occurrence then he'd be okay.

And so, he began by cleaning up the wooden floors and wall in his bedroom. It was not so hard to clean up as, say, a carpet, and he sprayed it down with heavy-duty cleaner to remove the smell of blood. He ended up throwing away a large number of bloody paper towels, as well as the fingertip pieces. He put a layer of packing peanuts over the top of the trash bag to prevent discovery by, say, the garbageman later.

Then there was the question of disposal of the bodies and the vehicle they'd come here in. Luckily, he had a truck for just this reason. He grabbed his tow cables, hitched the other car up, put the corpses in the other car, and pulled it all the way outside of town.

He pulled over, took a shovel, and began digging a large hole, big enough to fit three bodies and deep enough that accidental discovery of such would be relatively unlikely.

It took him nearly two hours to dig the hole, and then slightly less long to fill the hole back up. By the time he was finished it was still nighttime, but he knew it'd become light out soon enough. Maybe in another hour or two.

The makeshift grave displayed clear signs of disturbed soil as compared to the surrounding landscape. There was nothing he could do to remedy the situation, so he just had to hope that nobody would notice until grass eventually started to re-grow in that spot.

The remaining issue was of what to do with the car. He didn't know whether any of his fingerprints were left on the car, so he couldn't just leave it. Likewise, he knew it wouldn't be possible for him to dig a hole big enough for a large vehicle.

There was one solution: let it sink into the nearby Arkansas River.

He got back into his truck, drove to the river, disposed of this key last piece of evidence shortly before the sun rose, and then was finally able to return home, utterly exhausted.

* * *

**Also Sprach Zarathustra: VI: Breakout**

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Saturday, November 23, 1963**

She knocked on the door.

No answer.

She waited more than thirty seconds, and so began to suspect that nobody was home.

_No, there's definitely somebody in there. Is that...fear_?

The door opened.

"You are Bonnie?" he asked.

She nodded, put off by this man's disheveled appearance. And was that whiskey she smelled on his breath?

"Please, come inside."

He led her to his parlor/living room, where the piano was. She sat down at the piano bench.

It seemed a little short, doubtlessly because of Mr. Yuri's taller stature for which it was set up.

He reached his hand onto the side of the bench and began turning a knob.

"Please stand for a minute."

She did so, and the bench began to come up an inch or two.

"There. Is that better?"

She sat back down and concluded that it was indeed better.

He sighed. "Alright. So...what should I know?"

"Huh?"

"How much do you already know? Or are you a complete beginner."

"I-I've had a few lessons with Mrs. Matthews."

"Who?"

"She's the organist at my church."

He nodded. "So I won't need to teach you about the different keys and how to play scales, chords, and arpeggios?"

She shook her head. "No sir. I already know that."

He looked down at her feet. "Do you know how to use the pedal?"

"Only somewhat. You might have to talk me through it."

"Fair enough. Why are you here, Bonnie?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why do you want to learn? Simply for fun?"

"My mom wants me to learn. She says she regrets never having learned herself."

"...I see. And how old are you?"

"Twelve, sir."

"That's a tad late to be starting if you ask me, but very well. Can you read sheet music?"

"Umm, a little bit?"

He opened a book and put it on the stand above the piano.

"We'll start with something easy. Can you play this?"

Bonnie put her fingers on the piano, read the notes in the book (which was for children), and ecked out the tune to "Come Thou Fount". She played it in D, except with no sharp keys, so it ended up sounding very minor-y.

Mr. Yuri snickered. Bonnie's face turned red in embarrassment.

"D-Did I do something wrong?"

"That was awful," he said, still grinning. "Okay, first lesson. You see those?"

He pointed to the symbol beside the notes which savvy modern internet users would know simply as the "hashtag".

"That's called a sharp. You see these black keys? When you see a sharp you don't play the note stated but rather you play the black note to the right of that."

There was a pause.

"Do you want me to repeat that?"

"N-No, I think I get it," she said.

"Alright. Let's test that out. Play F sharp."

Bonnie found the key of F and then played the raised black note to the right of that.

"Good. Now C sharp."

Bonnie played it.

"Yes. D sharp."

Bonnie played it.

"Very good. Now, sharp indicates the black note to the right. When you see a symbol known as a flat, that means you play the black note to the left."

He grabbed the book and flipped through the pages until he found a flat. He showed it to her.

And so for the next thirty seconds Bonnie learned how to play flats.

He nodded. "Alright. The song you played was all in treble clef. That's the upper section here. The lower section is called bass clef, and what it means is..."

By the end of the lesson, Yuri was very pleased with his newest student.

He sat down at his desk and from underneath it pulled out a bottle of vodka.

Then he went to the kitchen and retrieved two small shot glasses, setting them down at his desk.

"Let us drink. To you learning to play Mozart."

"I-I'm twelve!" she protested.

He thought about it for a second and then:

"Yes. You're right. My bad."

He put the vodka away and then took a bottle of beer out of the fridge.

He opened it and poured some in both glasses, to the top in one and only about a third of the way in the other.

"Where I come from," he said, "Beer is not considered alcohol. It is a children's drink. Like lemonade here."

"Where are you from, Mr. Yuri? Are you a Russian?"

"Ukrainian. There is a big difference. They are two entirely separate countries."

He handed her the glass that was only a third full.

"You don't have an accent though," she said, pondering the glass in her hand.

"My family came here when I was seven. I'm forty five now, to be forty six in a few months, so you do the math. But enough about that."

He raised his glass. "To good health, to warmth in the winter season, and to a sense of humor that endures the wear of age."

He downed the shot. Bonnie quickly followed suit, and:

*cough* *cough*

_Uhh, this stuff's strong. My head_!

Yuri laughed. "What's the matter? Is beer too much for you? You wouldn't last one day in my homeland."

* * *

"Number please."

By this time he was sick and tired of using that tone of voice. Overly fake and saccharine. Nonetheless, it was what people expected of operators.

He inserted the plug into the correct jack and looked to see if there were any more flashing lights.

"Hey," he whispered, "was I the only one who thought I smelled blood at Mr. Yuri's house?"

_Huh_?

"You couldn't smell it?"

_Blood? No, I was too busy trying not to take another whiff of the whiskey on his breath. I couldn't smell anything else_.

A light flashed on the board. He responded immediately.

Mrs. Daphne loomed over him/her, something which always elicited feelings of unease.

"Number please."

"Umm, yes, first I wanna know...This gonna be a private call or what?"

"Sir?"

"You're not gonna be listening in?"

"No sir, your call is your private business. The nature of your call does not concern me or the company."

He finished forwarding the call, and then:

"...Cut it out."

"Ma'am?" Nobutaro said to his/Bonnie's supervisor.

"You've been speaking with an accent," Mrs. Daphne said. "I don't know why you're doing it but I expect it to stop right now. No more foreign nonsense. They're not calling reservations for a Chinese restaurant."

Nobutaro was much too scared to laugh at that remark, amusing as it was.

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Sunday, November 24, 1963**

Reverend Kenneth Bauer paced to and fro behind the pulpit, restless like a caged beast.

A considerably younger man than Norquist. He had an undercut (a hairstyle, like that of Richard Spencer, the modern-day controversial figure).

He raised his finger in to emphasize the Scripture that he was about to recite:

"They glorified him not as God, neither were they thankful. But rather they became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish hearts were hardened. Professing themselves to be wise, they became instead fools. And changed the glory of the uncorruptible God into an image made like to corruptible man, and to birds, and to four-footed beasts, and to creeping things. Wherefore God also gave them up to uncleanness through the lust of their own hearts, to dishonor their own bodies between themselves. They became filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness, full of envy, murder, debate, deceit, malignity. These who know the judgment of God, that they which commit such are worthy of death, not only do the same, but have pleasure in them that do these things."

"How then," he continued, "do nothing but wicked things come to dwell within the heart of a man? What is the original sin at the root of this matter? This is a particularly relevant question today. Surely you have all heard the news by now that just this Friday our President was shot down by a murderous heathen, a godless communist. In the heart of every communist the Devil has planted a seedling of idolatry. He says to himself, 'There is no God. There is only revolutionary socialism. There is only the glorious leader who we shall follow unto death. Such shall be the object of our adulation and our worship.' Because of their idolatry the Lord has given them up to every debased desire. There is no wicked deed that the hands of the communists have not worked."

"In their depravity," he continued, "they envy the prosperity of America, which can still at this time call itself a nation under God, a light on a hill which cannot be hidden from the watchful eye of the rest of the world. The communist rages against the church and seeks to overcome it, to swallow it whole and destroy it! They have murdered the saints in Russia! They have murdered the saints in China! But they shall not rest until they can do the same even in Broadway, Kansas! They have hundreds of nuclear bombs pointed right at our major cities at this very moment. The only thing holding them back from pulling the trigger is the fear of our righteous retaliation. They are trapped between their bloodlust and their fear of death. For now, the latter has won out, and restrains their actions."

"Now is the hour," he continued, "that we as a nation must remain vigilant. The enemy of our souls is emboldened now, for he has dealt us a blow. We must keep our wits and our arms close to us to defend our freedoms, even down to the last drop of blood and the last inch of soil, but above all we must place our trust in the Almighty God to deliver us out of the hands of evil..."

* * *

He stood at the doorway shaking people's hands as they departed.

"Thank you Reverend."

"Thank you Reverend."

"Good sermon today Reverend."

"Thank you Reverend," Bonnie said as she passed by him.

There was twenty-second interlude in which he was free to take a good look outside.

Bonnie, the daughter of Chad and Stacey. She and a few other congregants had referred to his predecessor as "Father Norquist".

And here he was, still "Reverend" in her eyes and in those of others. A title of deep honor denied to him.

Well, he thought, I guess I'm still the new guy here.

His eyes darted as someone else headed out the doorway.

"God bless you."

"Thank you Reverend."

Soon everyone was out except him.

He shut the doors behind him, being one of four people entrusted with a key to the church and so being free to come and go at any time of day or night.

He stepped into his office, formerly that of his predecessor.

He looked around. There were a lot of books and files he hadn't gone through. Baptism rolls dating back to the 1920s. Norquist's reading library, mainly books on theology and spiritual exercises.

On the top shelf, something caught his eye. A small wooden chest with a lock and key on it.

He took it down. Then he tried his church key on it. It didn't work.

He then spent the next thirty minutes rummaging around until:

Found it, he thought triumphantly.

He used this key to remove the lock. He opened the chest and:

Flash cards?

He skimmed his finger across the top and carefully took out one.

He read it, front and back.

And his eyes widened.

"T-This is...!"

* * *

It seemed to him a rather strange thing.

The Reverend had called Chad back over to the church on a Sunday afternoon, after lunch had been enjoyed.

Well, he thought, it's not like I have anything better to do.

He pulled up on the curb and headed inside.

He followed the Reverend into his office.

"Is something the matter, Reverend?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"...Is this about the break-in from a few months back? Like I'm sure we've told you already, we still haven't found who did it."

Rev. Ken shook his head. "No. I mean this."

In his hand was the flashcard he'd taken out of the box earlier. He read it out loud:

"Cartwright, Chad W. 4/30/1958. While stationed in Japan he did, having been married to his wife Stacey, have an extramarital and sexual affair with a local woman which lasted several months. He left her behind when his tour ended and he returned to the United States in 1950."

Chad just sat there, stunned. Finally:

"...You mean to say the Reverend's been writing this sh*t down?"

Ignoring Chad's use of a profanity in a church building, Ken answered: "Apparently so, yes. He has a box full of decades of juicy confession material."

Perhaps juicy wasn't the word I should've used, he thought.

"Anyways, since the church isn't so burglar-proof after all I figured I should probably get rid of this before it ends up falling into the wrong hands."

He handed the card to Chad.

"I would advise disposing of that as soon as possible."

Chad sighed. "I'll be sure to do that, Reverend. Thank you."

He began to rise.

"Oh," Rev. Ken said, "while you're here, could I ask a favor of you?"

"Uhh, sure. What is it?"

"Well, um, I'm kind of embarrassed to be saying this, but...your daughter, Bonnie."

"What about her?"

"She called him Father Norquist, is that right?"

Chad nodded. "I believe so. Why?"

There was a pause as Rev. Ken mulled it over.

Finally he just chuckled politely. "No, it's nothing. I'm sorry to bother you. Have a good day brother (speaking metaphorically)."

"I will. Thanks."

* * *

"Sir, my friend here is probably telling the truth. He and I came here together about six years back."

The man behind the desk folded his arms, pondering whether or not to believe them.

Chad, upon receiving the flashcard, had driven straight to the Broadway Post Office. He intended on depositing it in his PO Box.

There was a problem, however. He usually kept the key somewhere at home, and he didn't want to risk looking suspicious coming home, rummaging around for a key to something and then abruptly leaving once more. He wasn't sure how he would've been able to explain something like that to Stacey.

He would therefore need the man at the front desk to unlock it for him, claiming he'd lost his key somewhere. There was a problem with that, however: it'd been so long since he last came up here that probably none of the staff would recognize him. In need of someone to vouch for him, he called Kevin, who also had a deposit box here.

The man finally assented. "Wait one minute."

He went to the back room and soon returned with a key. They followed him to PO Box No. 195. Chad easily remembered the number after all these years because 19/5/1899 (alternately 5/19/1899) was his father's date of birth.

His box unlocked, Chad took another good look at the box's contents: a worn baseball glove from his childhood, his Ka-Bar knife, an old photograph, and about $100 for rainy days.

He handled the items one-by-one, and then put them back in neatly. Then he took the flashcard out of his coat pocket and put it inside (behind the baseball glove). Then he closed it shut.

"You good?" the man asked.

Chad nodded. "All good, yes."

The two friends headed outside.

"Mind telling me what that was all about?" Kevin asked.

"Nothing much. Just...something I don't want anybody to see."

"So basically...something you should've just destroyed?"

Chad shook his head. "It was a confession of something I did."

Kevin gave him a funny look.

"Don't worry, it wasn't anything illegal. But when I confessed it, I felt better. Like a weight was lifted off my shoulders. If I destroy my confession then...well, I don't know how I'll feel then. I'd rather just not."

"I think I can understand that."

There was a pause.

"Thanks for coming up here."

Kevin shrugged. "Not like I had anything better to do. Alright, see ya later this week?"

"You bet."

* * *

**Thursday, May 9, 1957**

_"...You good now?"_

_With a sniffle, Kevin nodded._

_Tonight he, Chad, and Gay had gone out drinking. As he was leaving, he'd been robbed at gunpoint. He learned the hard way not to keep $77.35 on him._

_His response was to immediately run back inside the bar. He didn't call the police; he had enough inside knowledge to know there was only one guy on shift right now, and he was probably in the back room watching TV anyways._

_Instead, he asked the bartender if he could call the Cartwright home. Chad had yet to arrive, so Stacey received the call. He asked if she could tell Chad to call back, giving the number of the bar._

_He waited outside until Chad came to pick him up._

_Chad recalled his younger friend being a mess all over. He kept bawling his eyes out, and he may have even wet his pants. He kept repeating over and over that he was "pathetic" and "wished he had been shot". _

_Chad had never seen anything like it. __This kid, who'd seen war. So shaken up by some deadbeat with a pistol._

_But regardless, he let Kevin let it all out as the two sat in Chad's car, in the dead of night, crickets chirping._

_But then finally:_

_"...Wh-Where are we going?" Kevin asked._

_"You'll see."_

_A couple minutes later they pulled into the garage at Chad's house._

_"...I'd really hate to be a bother, Mr. Cartwright."_

_Chad shook his head. "You're not coming inside. Just wait here a minute."_

_A minute later, Chad returned to the car._

_Then he drove them elsewhere._

_Finally, they stopped at the Post Office._

_"Come on. Let's go inside."_

_Kevin shook his head. "I don't wanna be seen in public like this."_

_Chad sighed. "For the love of Gott, just come inside with me now."_

_Kevin reluctantly got out of the car._

_"Evening, gents."_

_Without bothering to respond to the one guy at front, Chad headed to where his PO Box was._

_He took the key that he'd brought from home and opened it up._

_Kevin caught a glimpse of what was inside right before Chad closed it up again, now holding in his hand a:_

_"Yessiree. This right here is a model Colt peacemaker."_

_Chad put the key back in his coat pocket._

_"I'm gonna give you this," he said. "You said it yourself, right? That you don't have a gun for home, or for when you're off-duty in general. I don't think that's very smart. A lot of baddies who have it out for guys like us, I do imagine."_

_Kevin was silent, as though deep in thought._

_"...Well? Here. Take it."_

_"O-Oh. Right. Sorry."_

_Kevin took the gun in his hands. "Thank you."_

_"Now you can take that home with you tonight, and ain't nobody gonna bother you so long as ya got that on you. I guarantee it. We'll bother with the paperwork another time, I'm sure you're anxious to be getting home."_

_Soon they arrived back in the parking lot of the bar, where Kevin's car had been parked._

_Kevin got out of the car, an anxious look still on his face._

_He turned around. "So, uh, Mr. Cartwright, listen, uh..."_

_Chad shook his head. "You don't have to say anything. And I won't say a word about what happened tonight. You just get yourself home and be safe. Alright?"_

_"...Alright. Thank you."_

* * *

**Wednesday, June 2, 1965**

_Come on. Bonnie. Let's go practice_.

"..."

_You can't just keep lying here. If you don't practice, Mr. Yuri's gonna be mad_.

"..."

Maple Leaf Rag. A composition by Scott Joplin. Monday afternoon she'd opened her book that Mr. Yuri had her take home. It was a very short book, more like a tall thin booklet. It only contained this one piece.

This was what she was supposed to learn now. On first glance it looked like a monster with claws. She'd hidden under her covers for about thirty seconds before returning downstairs, having mustered the courage to take a second glance at it.

But alas, it did not seem any less intimidating the second time around. Her recollection of how fast Mr. Yuri had played it certainly didn't make things any better. There were so many sharps in this that it wasn't even funny. And the first page was just the easy part of the song. Her immediate assessment was that this would the most difficult performance asked of her yet.

Granted, she'd spent the past one and a half to two years building up to this. But this seemed to be something on an entirely different level than what she was used to. They'd recently finished with Fur Elise. That seemed almost like a walk in the park in comparison.

_Bonnie. Don't make me ask you again_.

"Stop bothering me. Let me sleep."

_It's 5:25 in the afternoon. You don't need to be sleeping_.

"It's better than having to do that song."

Nobutaro thought about it.

He sighed.

_Alright. Goodnight, Bonnie. Do you wanna turn the light off first_?

"No, I don't wanna get up."

_Fair enough_.

He sat there with her for a couple of minutes, waiting silently.

Finally, she was asleep.

He wondered: if he switched now, would she wake up? He was about to find out.

He lied down on his bed, drew his sheets over him, and closed his eyes.

*vreeng*

Darkness. Nothingness.

And then...

_Wake up_!

His eyes jolted open, his heart racing.

_What on earth did you just do_?

He yawned. "...I guess it didn't work. How long was I out?"

_Maybe a couple of seconds. Did you...try to switch with me while I was asleep_?

"Y-Yeah. I was going to go practice for you."

_That's dumb. It's not like exercise or work. You have to do it consistently for yourself or nothing comes of it. You hardly even know how to play_.

"I've done it a little bit. Besides, I'm using your brain right now. Your brain has muscle memory for your fingers, so it should work out alright."

Bonnie laughed. _If you say so_.

"Seriously, just come back here and do the work already. You'll feel better when you're all done."

_No! I'm not playing that. I'll just mess up_.

"It's better to mess up now, when Mr. Yuri can't see you doing it, than when you're at his house, right?"

No answer.

"...Bonnie?"

Apparently she'd decided to go to sleep in his body.

He sighed, got up, and headed downstairs to the living room.

* * *

**Saturday, June 5, 1965**

Bonnie popped her knuckles.

"Alright," she whispered. "This is what you've been practicing for. Show him what you've got."

Silence.

"...Tarokun?"

"Well?" Yuri said from his desk a few feet away, starting to get impatient with her stalling.

"J-Just give me a minute, please."

Come on, she thought. Tarokun, where are you? Don't leave me out to dry here!

_Forget it. You should've practiced_.

"Just start already," Yuri said.

Bonnie winced. "I have nothing."

"Huh?"

"I'm sorry sir, but I have not practiced at all this week."

He sat up straight. "What?"

"I...I saw how hard this looked and I didn't even try."

She paused, waiting for him to yell at her.

But instead, he just shook his head.

"Bonnie. You've been doing so well, putting in a good effort, all of this time. Why now?"

She didn't know how to answer that.

He stood up, starting to get upset.

"You know what? Just get out of here. Wait outside quietly until your mother comes to pick you up. We're done here."

"But-

"I'm not asking. Go. Now."

* * *

_...You still not willing to talk to me, huh_?

"This is your fault," Bonnie said, sulking, her head in her pillow.

_No it's not. You should've done the work_.

"I thought you were practicing for me."

_I can't practice for you, Bonnie. You know that as well as I do_.

Bonnie's ear was still ringing as her mother had just finished chewing her out.

*knock knock*

Bonnie reluctantly got up and opened the door.

It was Gordy.

"There's a call for you."

"Huh?"

"It's Mr. Yuri, I think."

She headed straight downstairs and picked up the phone.

"...Yes?"

She swallowed.

"Bonnie, I just have to ask you...can you come with me Monday night?"

"I'm sorry? Come with you?"

"Yes. There's somewhere I'd like to take you," he said. "Please say yes, it's important to me."

"Umm, okay..."

Yuri hung up abruptly after that.

* * *

**Monday, June 7, 1965**

Bonnie had put on her nicest dress as she went with Mr. Yuri to a concert hall in Wichita. A fairly spacious building. They got seats near the front.

Not exactly the way Bonnie wanted to spend her evening, but she'd felt too guilty over what'd happened to turn him down.

He handed her a brochure of tonight's program.

The first piece was Beethoven's Op. 129, "Rage over a Lost Groschen" (penny).

Within seconds of it starting, Bonnie and Nobutaro understood why they'd chosen that piece. It was witty, or even comedic, with a very smooth and consistent flow to it.

And then finally, the performer finished, and the audience burst into thunderous applause.

Yuri bent over to Bonnie's ear, and whispered:

"We have recordings of these old songs. All of them. Why, then, do we show up in concert halls to listen to people play? These aren't even the composers of the pieces in the first place. So why should we care?"

Bonnie didn't have time to answer because the next song immediately started up.

* * *

Walking out the large red door, Bonnie and Nobutaro had had a great night. Mr. Yuri walked behind her, but then he caught up.

"Have you given any thought to my question from earlier?"

"Why we listen to these people play?"

She nodded. "I think it's because these people worked really hard to learn how to play these songs. I think it's because we can appreciate their talent."

"You're absolutely right. Some of the performers tonight were maybe in their late teens, early 20s. There were middle-aged and older people in the audience, many of whom have never learned how to play the piano, or any other musical instrument. I don't think it's possible, to listen in on something like this and not feel even a tinge of regret that they never harnessed their musical potential to its fullest."

"Because when you learn a skill," he continued, "your range of experiences broadens. If you never learn, there's a side of reality that you've never experienced. It remains closed to you. What makes life worth living, I wonder?"

"Huh?"

"This is just me. Don't quote me on this. But...I think fulfilling one's potential to experience as much as possible is the pathway to a life well lived...Bonnie, as I'm sure you know by now I am a lifelong bachelor. It's probably too late for me now, as old as I am. Even if I found a wife, I highly doubt that I'd be able to have a family, much less live long enough to see those children become responsible adults. Much of my life's potential has been squandered. Now, this isn't quite the same thing, I understand. But whatever area of your life you've wasted, it will one day result in a dissatisfaction that just won't go away."

"You have a fair amount of talent," he continued. "But beyond 'talent' you have potential. The inconvenience now that comes from having to practice hard pieces, I believe that it's worth it in the end, because you unlock your potential. You can become something beautiful: a person able to perform a highly skilled task. Now that you know what could be, you have two choices: you can either push onward or end up dissatisfied."

Bonnie pondered over these words.

"Come on. I'll take you home."

* * *

That night, Bonnie laid awake in bed.

For the first time, she considered the opportunity granted to her, in that her parents were able to pay for these lessons, that she had a teacher who pushed her. The magnitude of what she might one day be capable of.

And her response to that had been...

She got up out of bed and tiptoed down to the living room.

She pulled up the protective lid on the piano and sat down.

Everyone was asleep. She knew she couldn't actually play. However, she felt around with her fingers, and then very softly played the key of what turned out to be middle C so as to establish her bearings.

It was dark. She couldn't read the book. For that she went into the kitchen and returned with a flashlight. She flashed it onto the book; obviously she wouldn't be able to hold it in her hand while playing. So she set it down sideways next to the book, which had the effect of just barely illuminating it.

She squinted and tried to read the notes, subsequently positioning her fingers as to play.

Two D sharps, separated by one octave. Pretty straightforward.

The next was two G sharps, likewise separated by one octave.

In the right hand was a G#, and then a...

She tried to make out what it was.

And so she proceeded, trying to imagine in her head what it would've sounded like if played out loud.

That night she got through two bars, though still on the first line. She made sure to memorize that by going through it several times, so that she could play it out loud in the morning and solidify it in her memory.

She knew she couldn't stay up too late. She had a track meet tomorrow. But as she returned to bed later she had to admit, she made fairly good use of the time that she had tonight.

She would end up learning the song in its entirety, and even performed it for her church around Thanksgiving season.

* * *

**Sunday, October 3, 1965**

_"Today, with my signature, this system is abolished."_

The announcement had been made by the President only about three hours ago. Deftly moving plugs across the board like an expert, Bonnie had to consider why on earth she was still doing this.

From this point on Tarokun was potentially eligible to immigrate to the United States. There was no need for her to come to him. As for the money that she'd been saving...

_No. Don't blow it_.

"Huh?"

_Once I finally get out from these walls, I can open a bank account somewhere here in Japan. In turn, you can put your money in a bank, and then wire the money to me. I can use it to buy a one-way plane ticket_.

"To Wichita?"

He shook his head. _No, to San Francisco or Los Angeles most likely. I can maybe hitchhike the rest of the way, or otherwise work my way east until I get to Wichita. Land travel is probably a lot less expensive, in any case_.

"In any case," she whispered, "we don't have enough yet."

_It's alright. Once I'm free, I can get a job and save enough to make up the difference_.

"Huh?"

_Listen, Bonnie, here's what you need to do: at the end of tonight, before you go home, talk to Mrs. Daphne and give her two weeks' notice_.

"Notice?"

_Yes. Tell her that two weeks from now you'll be quitting. That'll give her enough time to find a replacement for you. It's common courtesy when leaving a job. Be sure to thank her for these past two years of gainful employment_.

"H-Hey, come on now, I'm not just going to-

She had to hold that thought, because another caller came through.

At the end of the night, she disregarded Nobutaro's advice and returned home without speaking to Mrs. Daphne, resolving to keep her job for now.

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Monday, October 4, 1965**

Bonnie had just put on her track uniform, which was what we might think of nowadays as typical jogging clothes (dark long-sleeved shirt with dark pants, though it was slightly thicker, and made of cotton rather than synthetic materials). It had the logo "Mavericks", the general name for the organized sports team(s) at Broadway, for both Broadway Elementary and Broadway High School.

One of the first things she was taught by the coach was to stretch before running. However inconvenient that may've been, if she pulled a muscle then that would end up costing her even more time.

And off they went. Starting fairly strong, as usual her male colleagues slowly passed her up. She did not try to catch up with them, as over the entire distance that would've been a fool's errand, but rather she aimed at keeping a steady pace. In her mind there was nobody she had to compete with but herself. The coach was okay with this, so long as she continued to show improvement over time.

She knew from experience there was a certain threshold past which the discomfort of strenuous physical exertion would turn into a feeling of euphoria known as "runner's high". To feel that amazing sensation once more was something that kept her motivated to keep at it all this time.

At the beginning, one of the things holding her back in her run had not been the pain itself, but rather fear. Fear that if she pushed her heart too hard it would simply collapse and cease to function. For that reason she'd striven for gradual increase in her heart's ability to pump blood efficiently during intense workouts. But that was three years ago. She'd come a long way since then.

So had her peers, of course, which was why she was still ranked at the bottom on her team. To a large degree that could not be helped.

Beginning next semester she would be starting High School. When that happened, she knew she'd have to apply for the track team all over again. The new coach might not be so open-minded as the man she'd known these past three years. She was definitely more able than any girl at her school. There was no mistake about that. But "more able than any girl at her school" would probably not be enough. From what she'd heard the level of competitiveness would pick up significantly in High School. There would be a greater emphasis on winning contests, bringing home trophy cups for the glory of their school. She knew that her ability to thrive or even survive such an environment was limited.

Water break.

She leaned against the metal pole and caught her breath, waiting for her head to cool down.

Coming up behind her was Cal, the second ranked member of the team. Apparently he was more than one lap ahead of her, and he decided to take this opportunity to take a break himself, maybe start up a friendly chat.

"Hey."

Still out of breath, she nodded to him.

"So, uh, I heard the news. Uh, what's his name, your Japanese friend. He's allowed to come here now. Right?"

"...Yeah."

"Well, that's great to hear."

She shook her head. "He can't come yet. I don't have the money."

"Huh. Haven't you been working these past two years to save for that?"

"I have, but it's not enough."

"Two years and you don't have enough money?"

"No. I only get paid twenty five cents an hour."

He blinked. "They never gave you a raise or anything?"

She shook her head. "I'm too afraid to ask for that."

He thought about that for a second. Then he shrugged.

"Alright. Well, it's good talking to you. I'll get back to it then."

And with that he continued his run.

_Why, that good for nothing lousy...Who does he think he is_...

"What's up with that attitude?" she demanded. "He was just talking."

_Talking. Right. I know what he's thinking. Guys like that, at his age_...

"At our age, you mean? That includes you."

_Hey, don't lump me in with him_!

She giggled. "Are you jealous, Tarokun?"

_No_.

"I don't believe you."

_I said I'm not! Sheesh, what's there to be jealous of? That guy_?

"Well, he does have big muscles. He's a star athlete. And he's handsome."

"Plus," she continued, "he's, you know, actually here."

Nobutaro was silent.

As soon as Bonnie said it she regretted it.

Whelp, she'd rested long enough. She took off to finish her laps.

* * *

**Wednesday, April 6, 1966**

They brought the man in.

Yuzu Nakanomori, age 28.

In 1965 an organized strike broke out among the nationwide facilities of a large shipbuilding company. The shareholders attempted to break the strike by hiring more workers. The union leaders, however, cut a secret deal with certain shady characters (the BO) to wage a campaign of violent intimidation against the strikebreakers, resulting in conditions too unsafe for them to come to work. In the end, the company had to capitulate to their demands. The Black Organization had a hand in the drafting of the agreement that settled the strike. Among its provisions it was required that all workers be part of the union, and so give up a small portion of their earnings as union dues every month. In addition, control over their benefits packages were handed over to the union.

The BO, of course, would not have done this for free. In exchange for their cooperation, they required that the union leadership let them pocket a sizable portion of the considerable resources at the union's disposal, in what was intended to be a more or less permanent arrangement. This had become standard operating procedure for the Organization, their way of raising money to fund their slowly growing operations. Both to uphold their initial end of the bargain and later to collect from union leaders, it was necessary for the BO to reach out to the streets and hire criminal types to serve as their enforcers. They simultaneously collaborated with Yakuza groups and fought turf wars with them, in their bid to make money and expand their power.

Hajime Suzuki, who'd once been a respected officer in the imperial Japanese military, not only tolerated but approved all of this. He understood that he had to build a highly efficient company from the bottom up, in order to bring to fruition the ideology/religious ideal that only the inner circle was privy to. He'd spent the past 20 years purging those persons from positions of leadership who might contest and oppose his ideas, demanding nothing short of absolute loyalty. He set in place a strict hierarchy of codenamed agents, initially deriving their monikers from a diverse array of sources (such as playing cards, alcohols, and high-scale luxury items) but eventually settling on alcohols. At this time there were only a handful of female members of his organization, none of whom were codenamed. Over time, this would change, and the rule would become that male agents derived their codenames from liquors, and female agents from wines.

But anyways, the shipbuilder's union boss was Yuzu Nakanomori. After the success of the strike that he led, he'd been asked to pay up. He refused. They began harassing him, and he threatened to go to the police, even if it meant that he was going to prison as well.

He should've known, that in the criminal world threatening that one is going to call the police on another criminal is to beg for an untimely and perhaps brutal death. But luckily for him, there was little value to the Organization in killing him. If they did that, they wouldn't get their money back on their "investment".

Instead, they'd spent the past day and a half torturing him. And then they brought him here.

To Nobutaro.

This wasn't "typical", but every now and then some people were brought to him. Hajime had to contend with the Council, which, though loyal to his cause, were critical of the waste of resources that was Hajime's insistence on keeping the boy (who was starting by now to become a man) fed and guarded. They wanted to simply do away with him, because of his continued inability to translate the brass plates. They concluded that he would never demonstrate this ability. Hajime disagreed (and also, just maybe, felt just a teensy bit sorry for him), stating that Nobutaro needed more time for his still adolescent mind to finish developing. To justify this continued expenditure, they decided to put him to use in the here and now.

Nobutaro had adamantly insisted that he would not participate in the murder of any human being. Hajime agreed to this, or at least he said as much.

The question was this: had Nakanomori-san, who'd been tortured, changed his mind? If they were to release him now, would he agree to keep paying them off as initially settled upon? Or would he, despite his protestations to the contrary, run straight to the police? Nobutaro was their ace in the hole, the one sure means at their disposal towards obtaining a reliable answer to this question.

It'd all become standard procedure by now. If the answer was yes, victim would be given his freedom. If the answer was no, well, he would be tortured again, until finally Nobutaro got the answer he was looking for. In case the victim might later consider changing his mind, immediately prior to release he would be given warning that should he ever betray the Organization's trust, he and his entire family would be murdered, and that not even protective police custody could save him in such an event.

This here was Nakanomori's first trip to Nobutaro's cell.

As soon as they entered:

"You can let him go."

"Hmm?"

"He's not gonna go to the police. I could read his mind from the room over."

"...You better not be lying to me."

Nobutaro shrugged. "What's there to lie about? It's plain as day."

Teed off by the claim that it was somehow a simple thing to read somebody else'e mind, and that by extension people who couldn't were stupid, agent Vodka (again, not the same guy as the modern-day Vodka) growled.

"Alright," he said. "You heard him. Let's go."

They took him out and the door was sealed shut once more, leaving Nobutaro alone again.

There was something that troubled him; last time, he revealed that the victim in question was still planning on reneging on his word even after having been tortured, the only such person thus far. Having read agent Vodka's mind, he was surprised to find that Vodka simply answered to agent Gin, who was to take custody of the victim and do something with him. Vodka was the BO's chief torturer, for which this made even less sense.

That is to say, it was like how it was when he first came here. The people directly dealing with Nobutaro did not know exactly what was going to happen, but instead passed on the remainder of the job to somebody else who was in the know.

He knew that this system was surely designed to keep him in the dark. As for the previous guy, they never brought the guy to see him again after that. So did that mean that they...?

He shook his head. Mr. Suzuki was far from an upstanding human being, but the man was no liar. He'd promised that nobody would die as a result of Nobutaro's cooperation.

But then, what other explanation was there? If the victim in such an event was not going to be tortured again, but rather some fate was to befall him/her that Nobutaro was not to know about, and since for obvious reasons the fate of that person could not be release...

There was no way around it. What he said about that guy last time resulted in his death. The Organization apparently didn't want to take its chances with a person like that.

So that's why, just now, he answered the way that he did. It was unclear to him whether Nakanomori-san was going to talk or not. His mind seemed jumbled, unclear. Clearly in this mind he'd been terrified for his life and willing to do anything to save his own skin, but he hadn't resolved in his mind to cooperate no matter what. Whether he would remain willing to play ball upon release was unknown to Tarokun.

But either way he had to give that answer, because he knew the alternative might've been the death of a man. He knew there was some risk involved in what he was doing: if his assessment proved wrong too many times, the Council (and perhaps even Mr. Suzuki) would conclude that he was not a reliable or even particularly useful asset, which was tantamount to a death sentence for him. These were very dangerous people, after all. But somebody like himself would never be a willing party to an act of murder. That last time, whether or not the victim had truly died, it wasn't on him because he hadn't known what would actually happen. But anything beyond that point would be on his conscience unless he did all that he could to bring about a bloodless resolution.

There was, however, another troubling aspect of this:

If Mr. Suzuki had lied to him before, did that mean he was also lying to him when he promised him his eventual freedom?

Would Nobutaro be a slave to the Organization for the rest of his life?

Would he never get to meet Bonnie face to face?

* * *

A little tidbit that has gone unmentioned thus far in this work:

The Cartwright residence had a yard, front and back. Big enough to play tag in. Chad mowed it every now and then.

Its most prominent feature, besides the house itself, was the trampoline in the partially fenced off back yard. The trampoline had been purchased a couple of months ago by Chad in an effort to get Gordy interested in some kind of physical activity, and so coax him out of his bedroom.

And it was money well spent. Both he and Bonnie made regular and extensive use of it (though sometimes Gordy would come outside, jump around for five minutes, and then read for an hour while lying down on the trampoline; one had to give Gordy credit for how well-read he was by twelve years old, if nothing else).

Though the trampoline had no padding or safety features in general, it was spacious which meant it was fairly easy for one to stay away from the edges.

*spring*

*spring*

*spring*

With that last one Bonnie could very nearly see through a window on the second story. Almost.

And then, at Tarokun's urging, she toned it down a little bit. Her momentum dropped off.

She made a fairly weak jump and then landed sitting down. It didn't hurt at all, kind of as though she were landing on a cloud.

"So," she said, "have you thought about what you want for your birthday?"

_Huh_?

"It's in two days, right?"

_Come on now, how could I even get a present_?

"I dunno. I could get something and you could use it. Or you could always ask Mr. Suzuki for something."

Silence.

"Have you ever asked him for anything?"

_...I have_.

"And?"

_I was naive. Just a little kid. I wanted him to take me to go see my uncles, aunts, and cousins, to leave my cell for once. I was young enough that...well, running away isn't something I think I could've managed in any case_.

"Did he let you?"

_What do you think_?!

"...Sorry. Dumb question."

_He doesn't care about me. I used to think that he did, because he was the only person who ever visited me. But what he really wanted_...

Silence.

_Bonnie, I have to get out of here_.

She nodded. "They're not going to let you go, right?"

_Wait, how did you know that_?

"I didn't know for sure, but...from the times I've met Mr. Suzuki, I can tell how he thinks of you. In his eyes...you're his property. You belong to him. When I'm there instead of you, the way he acts, it's like he's anxious about you being stolen from him."

_Stolen_...

"Yeah. And it only makes sense. There's no other person in the world who can do what you do. They're not going to give up the advantages and opportunities you provide them with. They'd have to be really dumb. Plus, they couldn't trust you not to tell the police on them...right?"

_Of course! They hurt people, steal money from people. Mr. Suzuki is...a stain on this world. Somebody who never should have been born_.

She could feel the conviction and anger flowing from him as he spoke those words.

"So...what's next? How are you going to do it?"

_I've been giving a lot of thought to that_.

"And?"

_First of all, I know where they're holding me_.

"Really?"

Yeah. _That much I've known for a while. A couple of years. I got the location from the mind of the guard posted outside the door. And I know the layout of the surrounding area as a consequence. If I can just get out of my cell, and get a hold of the guard's key, I can make my escape with his car_.

He continued: _But there's a problem with that. There's one road in and out of here. It's a compound located in the middle of nowhere, after all. All of the guards have walkie-talkies. If I make a break for it, the guards will be quickly notified, and they'll lock down the road in and out. I'm talking guys with guns, and things laid down on the road that puncture a car's tires if it tries to drive over them. I won't have time to drive away before they respond_.

"Well...what if you didn't use a car?"

_I already thought of that. There's nothing but woods all around, don't know how far out it extends. They'll quickly give chase with hunting dogs, and to be completely honest the shape my body's in now means I won't get very far. If they catch me, well, they'd make sure I never get another chance to run_.

He continued: _I only have one shot at this. I have to make sure I do it right, no matter what_.

Then he sighed. _It doesn't matter, though. If I tried something right now I'd be stranded in the middle of a country which, by this time, seems more foreign to me than America. I'd have to hide out, with no money or anything, while they retraced my last steps and closed in on me_.

"And that's why."

Huh?

"Tarokun, the reason why I haven't quit, in all of this time..."

He nodded. _I understand. Thank you, Bonnie. How much...do we have_?

"Still not enough."

_...I see. I imagine we're still a few years off, then. Before we can put any plan into action_.

"Look on the bright side. You'll have plenty of time to think."

"Hey."

Gordy came into view.

"Mom says it's time to eat."

Bonnie got off the trampoline, stood up, and slipped her shoes back on. "Alright, I'm coming."

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Thursday, April 7, 1966**

"Find the Slope for (1, 4) and (3, 7)".

Bonnie thought about it for a second and then put down "3/2".

She expected the first few would be easy, covering more basic material (to ensure retention). But she took a quick glance down the page and began to worry.

This was the second big exam for this class. Her performance on the first was somewhat mediocre so her mother expected her to do better this time.

_Stop chewing on your pencil_.

"Shut up," she whispered. "It helps me think."

Graphing was not her forte. Nor was math in general, for that matter. She thought she was pretty good at it back in elementary school, but this new semester had disabused her of such a notion.

Thirty Minutes Later, Bonnie filled in the last answer bubble and was done.

She looked around.

_Aww, for real? Looks like you're the third last student to finish_.

Bonnie got up and turned in her papers to the teacher.

As she turned to go, Mr. Mendelssohn (said teacher) tapped her on the shoulder and handed her a sealed envelope.

She stepped out into the hallway and read the cover.

It was from Cal.

He was finally making his move on Bonnie, apparently.

But what was this? The following was also written:

"Do not open until Midnite April the 8th."

_Just throw it away. I'm sure there's nothing written in there that's worth your time_.

"How rude. I have to read it once, at least."

She secured it tightly on her bookstrap and headed for the library.

* * *

He paced his cell anxiously.

Bonnie had stayed up late watching whatever was on television, such as _Flintstones_ re-runs and whatnot, all in a bid to stay up until twelve.

When she got tired of watching TV, she returned to her room and sat on the floor, waiting.

All the while, she could feel it, plain as day:

Nobutaro was seething, bombarded with a flurry of negative emotions. She tried to call him out on it (several times), but he repeatedly denied anything was wrong.

And so they barely spoke to each other at all this whole day. But in a heated bout between the two that'd taken place about an hour ago Bonnie asked him:

"Why do you care so much about what happens between me and Cal?"

And for that he had no answer. But something about the situation rubbed him the wrong way, with every fiber of his being on edge over this.

It seemed unfair. She was the one person in this world who he had. But if she started going out with this boy, he knew that would be all she thought about. She would more anticipate spending time with Cal than spending time with him. There would be moments between her and Cal for which he would be an outsider, the awkward third person in the room who needed to just go.

Depending on how far this relationship progressed, the sum of those moments would grow, until eventually Bonnie would no longer want him around at all. His only friend in this world, the one thing that'd kept him from losing his mind years and years ago as he rotted in this dungeon. She would abandon him. She would replace him with this Cal and he would be soon forgotten.

And that seemed to him an unbearable pill to swallow. If he lost Bonnie, then...what was there? Without her, what reason did he have to get up in the morning? To make plans for the future? What was the point of any of it, without her?

It was not accurate to say simply that Cal was going to take Bonnie away from him. She was clearly flattered by the fact of this envelope, and she looked forward to reading it. It was an exciting thing for her, receiving this much attention from him. And why midnight? Was he going to show up and do a serenade out her window? The whole thing made her feel giddy inside.

That was, she was a willing participant in all of this. He could hardly understand it, why she would stab him in the back.

They just had to wait a few more years, and he could come to her. And they would...

He blushed. What was he thinking? "Be together"? In what way? What, truly, was the difference between the way they were together now, and how they would so be face to face?

He saw it on television, and in movie theaters, quite often. A silent gesture of longing in a man's eyes. The same in a woman's eyes simultaneously. Neither one speaking, but the thoughts and desires of both in sync in that moment. As they faced each other, and drew nearer by the second, and then united into a...

He had to slap himself to snap out of it. Was something like that really what he wanted?

To draw closer to Bonnie. To kiss her on the lips. To have more than what he had now.

But the more he thought about it, the sweeter and more desirable such an outcome appeared to him.

There was no mistaking it.

He was falling in love with Bonnie. Today had been the catalyst.

But that begged the question: Did she love him back?

If she did, then why would she be excited about this envelope? Why was she thinking about Cal?

* * *

Just a few more minutes to go until midnight. Just what exactly would happen?

"...I can't wait any longer."

Bonnie grabbed the letter opener (a sharp implement) that she'd taken from downstairs and cut open the envelope.

There was a handwritten letter inside.

Nobutaro swallowed.

Bonnie read it out loud:

"Dear Bonnie. When I think of you, I think that you're the luckiest girl in the world. Because you've known the person you're meant to to be with from a young age. I thought I figured out who that person was for me, but I was wrong. These past few weeks I got in touch with people who you know. People at school, people at your church, people who are friends of your family. We came together because we all shared the same wish: that you should be able to meet Tarokun face to face. We committed ourselves to doing whatever we could to make that meeting happen."

She continued:

"You are opening this at the beginning of the day April the 8th, 1966. From what you've told us, today should be Tarokun's 15th birthday. We never knew him, but you did, and through you we got to know just a little about him. We don't know him well enough to call him our friend, but any friend of yours should be ours as well. So on behalf of the community of Broadway, we would like to wish Tarokun a very happy birthday. In this letter should be a check for three hundred and fifty dollars, the donations made by all of us put together under one bank account, which is under the name of Reverend Bauer at your church."

Bonnie stopped reading for a moment and reached into the envelope to confirm this. Sure enough, this was a check for $353.49.

It was enough. With this, they now had enough money.

Bonnie stared out into blank space for probably five minutes before she picked up the letter again and finished reading:

"This is from all of us. I made a donation too but it was a small one. The people who you should be thanking are too numerous for mention. Just know that we all want you and Tarokun to be happy. And we all wanna meet him for ourselves and ask him all sorts of questions about Japan so he'd better get his butt on that plane ASAP. Sincerely, Calvin Murphy (and the rest of us too!)".

On the back of the letter a bunch of people had provided their own signatures, in a display which gave Bonnie and Nobutaro an idea of just how many people were in on this.

Bonnie started to choke up. Her lips quivering, she covered her mouth. Her eyes were narrowing and tearing up.

And she could feel it.

Tarokun was crying as well.

* * *

**Sunday, April 24, 1966**

She kicked the stand and sat down.

As of right now, she was done. And it felt like a weight had been lifted off of her shoulders.

She'd just finished her last night working as a switchboard operator, having given notice two weeks ago from tonight. She would not have to go another shift under the tyrannical supervision of Mrs. Daphne, a woman whose authoritarian personality traits were so strong it was rumored among the girls that she had a swastika tattooed on her butt (never confirmed or debunked, and Nobutaro didn't want to go peering inside that woman's head to find out).

She knew that while as an adult she might have to go get a job again, she was presently 14 years old, to be 15 in a few months. She probably shouldn't have had to work the years that she did, though her hours had always been few. In any case, for the time being she was no longer in need of employment.

The time was drawing near. They'd need maybe a few more days/weeks of practice and preparation, and then Tarokun could put his escape plan into action.

As it turned out, he had the potential to control another person's body from his, through sheer willpower. He could override someone else's will to action and make their body did as he pleased. It was something he and Bonnie had been practicing for about a week now; allegorically speaking, he pushed and she pulled. They did it when nobody was watching, because it would've definitely appeared to an outsider that she was feeling rather pained.

But as the days passed, Nobutaro got incrementally better. They knew it was only a matter of time before he'd be able to pull it off:

Force the guard outside the door to shut his mouth closed, turn and open the hatch, step inside the room, let Nobutaro take his walkie-talkie and car keys, and then stand passively while the boy exited and sealed shut the door behind him. If this was done at night, as it was about time for one guard to be leaving and replaced by another, then perhaps he could drive off and enjoy something like a 10-24 hour head start before they figured out what'd happened. His cell was largely soundproof, so even if the guard who'd been trapped in his stead spent all night banging on the door it may or may not have done any good. In any case, he could at least escape the compound before the ruse was discovered. That much he was hopeful of.

He had a feel for the layout of the roads, so he knew where to drive to. He was confident he could make it all the way to Tokyo, a city of untold millions of inhabitants. An easy enough place to hide, long enough to open a bank account and apply for a visa at a United States embassy. If all else failed, he could bribe somebody's permission to sneak onboard a ship bound for America.

In any case, that was not something they had to worry about tonight. Bonnie was just eager to go home and get some rest before tomorrow.

Today had been pretty good, all things considered. Mrs. Matthews, who was going to move away from Broadway in just three months, let Bonnie serve as organist at church today, in preparation for what might hopefully become a permanent thing soon.

There was a new moon, so it was rather dark out. However, she knew the way home and the occasional streetlight helped guide her on her travels. It was quiet out, for which the wrickety sound of the rotating bicycle wheels was quite noisy. But also relaxing.

This was a safe town. Bonnie had little worry about being mugged or accosted. All things considered she could probably outrace any attacker on her bike.

A light up ahead on the road (she was pedaling on the sidewalk). It was getting closer, so she knew it was a car.

She briefly waved as it neared.

The car passed her by.

A pause.

"...Tarokun? Are you feeling alright?"

Nothing. Nobutaro didn't answer.

And then:

_...Kill...m...me_.

"What?"

_B-B-B-Bon_...

And then, he managed, just barely a croak and whisper:

_...Kill me...PLEASE_!

And then he broke out into hysterical sobbing.

The car that had just passed them by was dragging behind it a person, tied to the back end of the car by way of a rope around his neck.

The person was dragged along the ground at more than 45 miles an hour. His skin was peeling off, leaving a trail of fleshy tissue and blood behind the car wherever it went. The victim was alive and conscious as this was happening.

Nobutaro was convulsing on the ground, his pupils rolled all the way up, revealing nothing but the whites of his eyes, his mouth frothing with spittle as though he were a rabid dog.

He was in hell, a level of pain virtually unimaginable to most people. What he was feeling was:

The final living moments of that person who'd been brutally murdered right here in Broadway.

* * *

("Be Thou My Vision" by Kalafina, feat. Yuki Kajiura, instrumentals in "Celtic" style)

_Bi thusa mo shuile a ri mhor na nduil_

_Lion thusa mo bheatha, mo cheadfai's mo stuaim_

_Bi thusa i m'aigne gach oiche's gach la_

_Im chodladh no im dhuiseacht lion me le do gra_

_Bi thusa mo threoru i mbriathar is i mbeart_

_Fan thusa go deo liom is coinnigh me ceart_

_Glac curam mar athair is eist le mo ghui_

_Is tabhair domhsa ait conai istigh i do chroi_

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	7. Chapter 7

**An Ufotable Production**

_Fusae, are you able to comprehend it?_

_The pain I felt that night. In the true sense it wasn't my pain, but...I felt it as though it was being done to me._

_It was a day or so before it really sunk in: that a person had done this deliberately to another person. That this wasn't some bizarre and deeply tragic accident. No, this was on purpose._

_Somebody made a conscious choice to inflict suffering and death of such magnitude upon somebody else._

_As disturbing as it was, I couldn't stop thinking...what it must've been like to be that person, after the fact. What must've been going through his head as he went home, knowing he'd killed a man._

_What a disconnect that must've been. Laying his head down on his soft pillow and mattress. He didn't deserve one more second of that. But he went to bed, and enjoyed several hours of rest. Woke up feeling nice and refreshed...and then recalling what he had done the night before, except that now his perspective of its implications would be changed slightly, having had the opportunity to sleep on it._

_I felt pain from one guy. And I felt nothing from the other. Maybe the victim's pain drowned out any anguish the killer might've felt, as far as my sensory perception was concerned. So I suppose that I can never know for sure. I would've been much too focused on that one thing, in any event._

_But what I do know is that his mental torment was not equivalent to the physical agony his victim was experiencing. Not even close._

_Do you understand, Fusae, why I could never do such a thing?...Because I know that I'd be doing it to myself too._

_That is empathy, I suppose. Most ordinary people can't do that to such a degree, but...it pangs them in their soul to see it happening to somebody around them, and especially knowing that there's nothing they can do to help. And that's well good enough._

_To share someone's pain...Is it a blessing or a curse? To that I would answer...neither. That's a faulty way of looking at it. To suffer as other people suffer is truth._

_Go out on a busy street. Look left, and then right. Everyone around you has unresolved issues of some kind. It doesn't have to be this way. But it is, because we refuse to acknowledge anyone's pain but our own. It's the coward's way out. Because you see, this is a cruel world. People continue to hurt because nobody helps them. Nobody helps because it's easier to live a lie, which is that somebody else's suffering has no bearing on them._

_To know the truth is what makes us human. Indeed, it is the only proper way to live._

_So what, then, must I think about people who are totally incapable of acknowledging this truth? Or, rather...people who consciously hurt others and receive gratification from the act?_

_They aren't human. They're wild animals that dwell among us in our cities and our homes. They're a danger to anything and everything around them. We must put them down like diseased livestock, wherever we find them. _

_Kill them all. Show them no mercy._

_Or so I used to think, at least._

* * *

**Also Sprach Zarathustra: VII: Tertiary Predator**

* * *

**Thursday, May 26, 1966**

"YMCA Club and Bathhouse"

Gordy read the sign on the gate overhead as he walked past it, heading to the front door.

He looked around, unsure whether this was the right entrance. But he took a chance and knocked.

Within seconds somebody answered the door.

It was a middle-aged man in dorky glasses. He was balding, had a big mustache, and was wearing athletic short shorts (as was not unusual for men at this time).

"Hello," the man said with a creepy smile. "Can I help you?"

"Umm, hi, my name is Gordy Cartwright. I'm supposed to, uh, start today, right?"

"Hmm. If you could just wait out here while I'll check. It should only take a minute or so."

A minute later the man re-answered the door. "Come in."

They went to a gymnasium where a bunch of teenage boys were playing basketball.

They turned to see the new kid and stopped what they were doing.

"Boys, this is Gordy. Gordy, do you play basketball?"

Gordy shrugged. "I've played before. Why?"

The other man in the room (who also had a creeper mustache) blew his whistle.

"Alright boys, we're gonna pick teams again! Gordy, you're with us this round."

Basketball was a sport that required good hand-eye coordination and an adeptness at maneuvering around people who don't want to be maneuvered around.

In short, it was something that Gordy was rather terrible at.

The two grown men watched from the bleachers, staring at the rear ends of the teenage boys in their gym shorts.

"What a strapping young buck, isn't he?"

"Oh yes, Tom. I think he'll fit right in quite nicely."

Soon the game was concluded. Gordy got a bit more of a workout here than he was used to.

And then, out of nowhere, somebody slapped him in the butt. It was the bald creeper (as in contrast to the creeper with hair, whose name was Tom).

"My, for someone so young you sure do have a very nice tushie."

"U-Um...thanks?" he responded awkwardly.

"Alright boys, off to the shower we go!"

And that was where things got really disturbing.

* * *

**Wednesday, April 27, 1966**

"Bonnie. Wait up."

It was Chuck, whose family lived in Wichita proper.

He handed it to her: yesterday's edition of the _Wichita Eagle_.

She nodded and thanked him, and then sat down at her desk to read it.

Sure enough, the known details of the murder Tarokun had "witnessed" were on the front page. Fingerprints identified the victim as Charlie Hudson, age 42. The gory trail on the road originated in Wichita; it was believed that the culprit passed through Broadway to get from one part of Wichita to the other. The body was found at a public park in the city, having been discovered by a jogger in the morning hours of Monday, though too late for it to have been featured in the newspaper until Tuesday.

The approximate place where the victim started to have been dragged was determined by police, though the results were skewed by the fact that scavenging birds quickly took to the roads to consume the victim's remains (and because it'd started raining in Broadway later that night). Besides Bonnie and Nobutaro, who did not go to the police (since Bonnie was skeptical until now that anything had actually happened), there were no witnesses of the crime, or at least not any who came forward. Bonnie did not remember anything about the vehicle.

Because Charlie Hudson was a black man, the police were considering the possibility that this was a racially motivated hate crime. The victim was determined to have been overpowered, gagged, his hands tied behind his back, and then a rope tied around his neck. All of this was connected to the back of the perpetrator's car, who then got in and started driving. The crime began and ended in Wichita, for which the Broadway police only saw minimal involvement.

The victim was last seen Sunday night leaving a gas station, having purchased a pack of menthol cigarettes. The police were still investigating whether he had any personal enemies.

_Do you believe me now_?

"...Yeah," Bonnie said. "Sorry."

_Hmm_?

"For not believing you before. It just...didn't seem like something that could even happen. Not in this town, anyways."

There was a pause.

"So what do you want to do now?"

_Concerning this matter_?

"Yeah."

_That should be obvious! I wanna track him down, whoever was behind this_.

"Track him down?"

_And kill him_.

Bonnie stopped walking. "Huh?"

_Once I find him, I'm going to kill him_.

"H-Hey now, are you even hearing what you're saying?! What you're talking about is-

_Taking a life. The gravest of sins, under normal circumstances. But a person may be authorized to take a life as punishment for a heinous deed committed by the victim, without himself having committed any sin in the process_.

"Not person, you dimwit! The government! The government hangs or fries criminals, people like you and me have nothing to do with that!"

_Yeah, says who? You know as well as I do how this is going to play out. This guy, assuming the police are able to get him, will be charged with the murder of a black man. A unanimous jury will be required to sentence him to death, a rather unlikely event for obvious reasons. Heck, if even one juror out of twelve says no he might not be punished at all! The only way somebody like that gets what he deserves...is if somebody like me gets to him first_.

"Tarokun, you're starting to scare me."

_...Huuh? Did you just say..._?

"Y-Yeah."

He was floored by this response. Bonnie was...afraid of him?

Bonnie entered the classroom and it was a good couple of hours before the two of them spoke again.

* * *

**Saturday, April 30, 1966**

"...I see. So you still can't do it."

He snapped his fingers and the artefact was wheeled out of the room once more.

Mr. Suzuki turned to leave.

"...Wait."

He stopped. "Yes?"

"Mr. Suzuki...why are you doing this?"

He turned around. "Huh?"

"Why are you doing all of these things? Your life, everything that you've committed yourself to..."

There was a pause.

"You don't...strike me as a man who loves power, or money," Nobutaro said. "Why, then?"

"...That's easy. Because it's the right thing to do."

"H-Huuh?!"

Mr. Suzuki walked up to the hatch and pulled it so that it was just creaked open. He wanted some privacy in the talk that he was about to have.

"Tarokun, let me tell you a little story. I'm sure you don't know this, about me. I was born into a wealthy family. The descendant of samurais, in fact. My grandfather was a smart man. He realized that to maintain the family fortune, the old feudal way of doing things would not be nearly enough. We had to make the switch to more...modern enterprises. The utilization of manufacturing technologies imported from the more developed West. I was slated to one day take over the family business. So towards that end, I was sent halfway across the world to France to receive a proper Western education."

"I had many teachers," he continued. "But in my heart I have just one. His name was Zebulon Yitzhaki, a professor of philosophy at the university where I took classes. One day, he brought in pictures to show the class. Gruesome pictures, of dark-skinned men, women, and even children, their bodies mutilated. Their limbs severed. Their bodies dead. These were pictures of a place called the Congo. The Belgian colonial administration, under the ownership of the Belgian king Leopold II, had committed unspeakably wicked acts against scores of thousands of innocent people who'd done absolutely nothing wrong. I was...shocked, to put it mildly. In my life I'd never seen anything like it. Even to this day, some of those images are still burned into the back of my mind."

"I was a student who was all too eager speak my mind," he continued. "I raised my hand, and asked the teacher, why an agent whose nature was of absolute moral goodness, an entity we refer to as God, would allow evil like this to flourish on this earth. How he responded right then and there was probably the most disappointing, panned answer I've ever been given by any teacher. I was very unsatisfied. After class that day, I went to see him in his office. He closed the door, and locked it. What he was about to tell me, he didn't want me repeating to anyone. And then, he told me what he really thought. It was a conversation that changed my entire life."

Intrigued, Nobutaro's eyes lit up.

Hajime grinned. "I've captured your imagination now, don't I? What he told me was this...Yes. The entity known as God is of utmost moral goodness. He must acknowledge all truths, and is the source of all truths. But not all truths are created equal. The most fundamental truth is that God is holy, and worthy of the worship of lesser beings such as human beings. He does not hold this to be true out of a sense of narcissism or egotism but because it is truth. As for this fundamental truth, all other truths are beneath it. He created a Universe with people, who possess moral agency, the ability to freely choose between what is right and what is wrong. Because all too often we choose what is wrong, society is deeply flawed. So in His dealings with us people, God is forced to prioritize one truth over another, instead of acknowledging all of them equally. He must prioritize the highest truth, which is that He is deserving of our praise and adulation."

"But our hearts are easily confused," he continued. "In the contemporary era, believing ourselves capable of deciding what is right and wrong without any input from God, we've determined that morality in our dealings with fellow human beings is the most important truth. That is the fundamental heresy of modernity. When there is evil in this world, modern man is forced to choose between the ideal of a moral universe and the truth of God's holiness in spite of an imperfect reality. There are two approaches that we've taken: the first is to try and reconcile the two. In honesty all that that is is a cop-out. You refuse to choose God over ideals, but you're too scared to say so."

"On the other end," he continued, "there are people who reject God because of the evils that they see around them, and because they cannot accept the idea of eternal damnation of the soul. They've made their choice clearly, but it's the wrong choice. So what Dr. Yitzhaki told me...was that I was in mortal sin, for the way that I spoke. He asked me to look within myself, and I realized that what motivated my speech was pride, a sense of self-righteousness. Because the truth is that the only moral absolute is obedience to God, and the only absolute evil is defiance of the will of God. All other things are situational and prone to fluctuation. One must obey God at all costs, even if it means becoming the devil himself. Anything less than that is wickedness. As for this...there is a kernel of this truth to be found in religious texts. Abraham ascended the mountain with his son Isaac...and obeyed the command of God to sacrifice him on an altar, in the manner of the pagans. But the overwhelming consensus nowadays is that this idea is unacceptable. Therefore even the churches and the synagogues are filled with apostates."

He sighed. "We're not just a church. It's not enough that there should be a small handful of faithful believers. We must bring the whole world back to the forgotten knowledge of the fundamental truth of God's worthiness above all. And we believe that God has given us a method of accomplishing this. But..."

"...And that's why you need me? Because you believe God's instructions are contained within the text of the brass plates?"

Surprised that Nobutaro understood, Hajime nodded. "Y-Yeah..."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry that I haven't been able to do what you've asked. It doesn't seem to be within the scope of my abilities."

Hajime shook his head. "No, I have faith that you can do it. Maybe you're not there just yet. But that says nothing about where you will be in the future. I'm trying to buy you the time that you need."

He turned to go.

"And...for what it's worth, I'm sorry that such a role has been imposed upon you from a young age. If I had the chance to do it all over again, I'd do most of it the same way. Maybe I would've arranged for your conditions to be more comfortable, but for the most part I wouldn't change a thing. Because I believe in the necessity of everything that I've done. But that doesn't mean it isn't a d*mn shame."

And with that, he began to walk towards the door.

But then Nobutaro burst out:

"You're dying, aren't you?!"

Hajime stopped once more. And then he smiled calmly. "No surprise that you knew that. Yes. Hodgkin's Lymphoma, inoperable. By the time it was discovered it'd advanced too far, so...my fate is as good as sealed. It's only a matter of how long I have left. Weeks...months...even days...there's no telling. But anyhow, this might be the last time that you and me are able to meet like this. I suspect that after my death the Organization will pick somebody else to deal with you. I would have to ask that you lend that person your full cooperation, as you have with me, even if they're a little less kind."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I've lived a long life. And at least now I can be reunited with my God and with my teacher. Goodbye, Tarokun."

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Sunday, May 1, 1966**

"And to remind you all," Rev. Ken said, "a part of the proceeds from this month's collections will go to the local YMCA. Theirs is an organization that educates our youth in the importance of godliness and physical fitness. Obesity is a growing problem in our country, and our increasingly sedentary lifestyles is a major contributing factor to this. If left unaddressed this will not only cause health problems for our citizens but also threaten the military readiness of our country. So as you can see the work that they do is extremely important."

Soon the congregants were dismissed to enjoy the rest of their Sunday.

Nobutaro passed by the Reverend and walked down the steps.

He/she got on their bicycle (which they'd taken to get to church early) and turned around. He was beginning to pedal off when-

"Hey."

It was Mrs. Matthews.

"You did good today," she said.

"Thank you."

"So, um, are you going home now?"

He shook his head. "There's something I need to check out."

"Hmm? Are you...speaking with an accent?"

"No...Did you hear about what happened last week?"

"Yeah."

Mrs. Matthews shook her head. "I don't know what kind of person would do something that awful. Somebody characterized by a distinct lack of humanity."

Nobutaro stared intently at Mrs. Matthews.

"...Is something the matter?"

"N-No. It's nothing."

There was a pause.

"Mrs. Matthews...have you ever met a monster?"

"Hmm? A question like that, huh...Well, I think I'd have to ask, 'How would I recognize a monster if I saw one?'. I'd have to witness somebody doing something wicked, would I not? Or otherwise I'd have to hear some really terrible rumors about somebody who I'd already met."

She smirked. "I guess that's kind of a non-answer. So I'd just have to say 'What does it matter?'. There are monsters in this world whether we like it or not. You probably pass them by on the street every now and then. You can hope that you never meet one, but it's more important that you're never victimized by one. Stay safe, Bonnie. Keep away from dark alleyways in the dead of night, from places where seedy elements operate outside the limits of the law. There's a whole other side to the seemingly safe world that we live in, but in any case it shouldn't be too hard for someone like yourself to stay away from there. It just requires that you take basic precautions."

Nobutaro was silent.

"...Will that be all?"

"Y-Yeah."

"Alright. Well, see you next Sunday, Bonnie."

Mrs. Matthews got into her car and drove off, and afterwards Nobutaro headed on his way to their destination on his/Bonnie's bike.

* * *

"Listen, kid, I've already been over this with the police. There's nothing you or I can do so if you're not here to buy anything then beat it."

Half a minute later Nobutaro/Bonnie walked out of the gas station.

The victim's car had already been towed by the city. His whereabouts before he'd driven to the gas station were unknown; his family did not live in the area and the police were finding it exceedingly difficult to locate them. At this time the use of CCTVs to record traffic footage was impractical; to have a camera covering every illuminated street corner and traffic light corner in the city with the magnetic tape storage technology of the day would have been a highly expensive affair, and even if it had become barely feasible by this time it would take some time to be implemented, given political inertia in governing bodies across the country.

_...Remember our deal. If you find out who did this, you go to the police with that information_.

"Unless I receive your permission to proceed on my own."

_I don't see why I'd ever grant such permission, but okay_.

"Alright...First, did you do as I asked?"

_Yeah. I read his mind. I'm looking for the officer now, the one who questioned him_.

There was a long pause, but then:

_Found him. Case details, let's see...hmm. There was oil splatter on the back left side of the victim's car, and on the ground_.

"The cashier did say that he paid for $4.50 in gas, so he was probably filling his car when he was suddenly ambushed. He wasn't coaxed, lured, or tricked, but rather beaten and dragged, and then the noose put around his neck. How about the victim's weight?"

_Umm...138 pounds as of his driver's license, which the victim had last renewed two years ago_.

"Two years ago. A man's weight could fluctuate quite a lot in that time. But for the sake of convenience we'll assume it was still roughly that much as of the night of his death. Which pump did the victim pull up to?"

Switch with me and I'll show you.

*vreeng*

Bonnie took them into the lane. Forward was a short concrete bump and then grass.

_Alright. We need to think about this from the killer's point of view. He had rope with him, which was already tied to the back of his or her car. That meant this crime was likely planned beforehand. The victim most likely pulled into the gas station first, having been clandestinely followed by the killer. The victim had the opportunity to go inside first. He had to wait in line and so spent at least two minutes inside. The killer in that time would've had to park somewhere. Now, they didn't know for sure how long they'd have to wait. If they parked somewhere inconvenient for customers, such as somewhere that obstructed pathways to the pumps, that might've caused problems for them. So they would've pulled up to a pump, likely one adjacent to the victim_.

Bonnie looked to the stalls left and right to the one they were in now.

"The victim would get in his car on the left side," she said, "and fill up his car from the left side. Considering the weight of the victim, for which such degree of dragging would've been required, it would've made the most sense to park in the stall to the left of this one."

There was a car filling up in there, so they waited until that car pulled out before stepping into that lane.

"So assuming the killer was parked here, that still poses a major problem."

_The fact that the victim was behind him_?

"Yeah. At that point it would basically be up to the victim whether or not to conveniently move out of the way. There's no blood trail here, and you say he was still alive even when they'd traveled all the way into Broadway, so the killer didn't back up and run him over. The option that that leaves is..."

They stepped into the grass and looked down.

"As I thought," Bonnie said. "The killer drove through the grass."

_...Strange, though. The police don't seem aware of that detail. They just assumed the killer backed out and drove off_.

"Well, they probably weren't particularly zealous in their investigation, considering the victim was a black man."

_...Bonnie, switch with me. There's something I want to check_.

*vreeng*

Nobutaro bent down and examined the tire tracks carefully.

What is it?

"Well, the front tires came down...here. But then would've come the back tires. The back of the car would've gone up, putting the car at an angle, and exerting a little extra weight on the front tires..."

* * *

Using tape measure that they temporarily borrowed from the person manning the gas station, they managed to determine the exact distance between the front and back tires of the car, and between the left and right tires (or, that is, the width and length of the car's chassis).

"I think dad has some measuring tape we can use," Bonnie said.

I don't think that'll be necessary.

"Huh?"

_You're thinking of going around town measuring cars until you find something that fits exactly, right? But there's another option, one that should be a lot faster_.

"And that would be...?"

A book on cars, duh!

"Duh?" Bonnie repeated, incensed.

S-Sorry. But we just need to find a bookstore.

"Or a library, right?"

_W-Well, yes, but we'd need a membership for that, right? And they might not have a book current enough to suit our needs_.

"Couldn't we just pass on these measurements to the police?"

_And why would they believe us, exactly_?

Bonnie had to admit he had a point.

There's two more things for us to look for.

"Huh?"

Nobutaro then told her that...

"Huuh? You think the car had a spare tire on the back?"

Yeah. It would explain what he tied the rope to.

"Couldn't it have been a metal ornament?"

_A metal ornament that supported the weight of a 138 pound man being dragged? Please. Besides, I think the police would've found something like that rather quickly. They haven't, so_...

"In any case, it's Sunday so the nearest bookstore probably won't be open today. Let's try again another t-

She paused.

Yes?

"I think I know another way of going about this."

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Monday, May 2, 1966**

Bonnie turned the pencil sharpener.

"So we know the model car," she whispered as she returned to her table in the library. "We should just report this to the police and be done with it."

Indeed, yesterday they'd returned home, gotten some measuring tape, and then went to a car dealership back in Wichita to systematically measure each vehicle, until they found one whose dimensions fit the bill exactly. The type of tire tread matched as well. They were now reasonably sure as to that aspect of the crime.

The criticisms I've raised before still apply. How do we get the police to believe us? We need evidence of some kind.

Bonnie sighed. "You're just yanking my chain with this whole bit, aren't you?"

_Huh_?

"No matter how much we find out, you won't be satisfied until we actually kill this guy. All this talk about more evidence...you just want to find out who he is so you can deal with him yourself."

_Sheesh, it's not like I can do anything without your permission anyways, right? I mean, I'm not here in Wichita. It's your body that I have to work with, so I can't do jack squat unless you give me the go-ahead_.

_And don't forget_, he continued, _I promised you. I take my promises seriously, Bonnie. I just hope that_...

"You hope what?"

_I hope that the more we find out, the more willing you'll be to see things my way_.

There was a pause.

_You know, Bonnie, I've never given it much thought. What do I want to do when I grow up? In this day and age, a person doesn't have to be restricted to the same occupation as his family and community, right? We're free to choose for ourselves what we want to do. The more I've thought about it lately, the more I think I know what I want_.

_I want to hunt down monsters_, he continued. _I've heard about a man. His name is Simon Wiesenthal. He devotes his life to tracking down war criminals. More specifically, the people behind the Holocaust. I'm talking about things that...well, things that were so awful, done by people so evil, that_...

His voice trailed off.

"...Well, with your abilities I'm sure you could be of good help to Mr. Simon whatever-it-was," she said with a tinge of coldness.

What? That's all you have to say?

"What else is there to say? You think it's okay to...go around hurting people who've hurt people. But it's never okay to hurt people on purpose. Criminals belong in jail. Anything else is just plain wrong. I mean, how are you any different from them, Tarokun?"

_How am I different from bad guys_?

"Yeah. This guy we're looking for, he did it on purpose, because he liked it."

_What are you_-

"I think you like hurting people."

He was silent.

"Maybe you don't want to admit it, not to me, not even to yourself. So the people who you want to hurt are those who 'deserve it'. But deep down you know that it's still the same."

_Bonnie, how could you say that of me_?

"Because it's true, isn't it?! Why else would you be...?"

Silence.

"Tarokun?"

But he was gone.

* * *

_My entire life._

_That was how long I'd gone without wanting to hurt anybody._

_Well, in a sense. Sometimes Jane was such a jerk that I wanted to smack her across the face. Sometimes I felt that way about people other than Jane. Even about Gordy. Sometimes he could be a real brat. He could throw tantrums so hysterical and obnoxious you couldn't believe it. And somehow he was still having tantrums at 13, though they perhaps weren't quite as bad as they used to be._

_But as for *really* wanting to hurt somebody..._

_No._

_No._

_That was something foreign to me._

_Until now._

_With every fiber of my being, I wished that the man behind the murder of Charlie Hudson would die a slowly, agonizing death. At my hands. That the police should get to him first; such a thing seemed very unsatisfying to me. _

_I didn't just desire to watch him die. I wanted to be the one to kill him. I wanted to know how he felt as he died. __Because it was the only way to "make things right", to get closure for what happened._

_In truth, that's all there was to it. I'm older now, considerably older. You know that of course, Fusae. I know my heart better now than I did then. I am nothing like those people._

_On that spring day in 1966 I first asked myself, "Am I after justice or revenge?"_

_But soon that escalated. Considering what that line of thought rapidly evolved into I probably should've just left well enough alone._

_But instead I raised that initial question._

_And soon it became:_

_"Do I seek revenge for this man because I love violence?"_

_The thought disturbed me, and shook me to my foundation._

_But regardless, for the time being we both resolved to continue our investigation._

* * *

This was their first go. Police records showed that the owner of a blue *model of vehicle that belonged to culprit* had gotten arrested back in November 1965 for drunkenly attempting to run over a black man who'd bumped shoulders with him in a parking lot outside a recently integrated bar. The police noted that the car had a spare tire on the back, which was included in the case files.

They figured this guy was probably the killer, and now they'd come back to Wichita late in the day to confirm it.

Well, rather, Nobutaro had already confirmed it. But he didn't tell Bonnie that.

_...Hey Bonnie. Whatever you've got planned, forget it. I'll do the talking_.

"Huuh-

*vreeng*

"This is something I want you to experience for yourself, assuming that we're right. Be sure to probe his mind."

Them having just asked the landlord about the owner of that certain car, Nobutaro headed to room #5 of the two-story apartment complex. This room was on the first floor.

He knocked.

And waited, about a minute, until-

The door opened. A rather imposing, unkempt man answered.

"Whadya want?"

"G-Good evening sir. Have you heard the news about the Watchtower Magazine? For a limited time you can subscribe for a low price of-

"P*ss off, ya dumb foreigner..."

He slammed the door shut.

"...Did you get that?"

Silence.

"Bonnie?"

_...He did it_.

There was a pause.

_It's all there, in his head. Gloating over the "accomplishment" of murdering Mr. Hudson. Because he didn't like the color of his skin. He relished in the suffering that Mr. Hudson felt, like he was torturing a small animal to death, like he denied the very humanity of Mr. Hudson. It...filled him with glee! It_-

"Bonnie, calm down. Everything's going to be alright."

_No! This isn't alright! In what world is what he did alright?! Tarokun, I...I..._!

And then:

_Okay_.

"Huh?"

_You have my permission. Take this man's life. Show him no mercy_.

Nobutaro knew quite well what he had done here. He had manipulated Bonnie so that he could have his way. But of course that was just one way of seeing it: perhaps it could rather be said that he "made her understand", and so convinced her through legitimate means.

Either way as they began the journey back home he felt a number of conflicting emotions.

Little did they notice that they were being followed...

* * *

"Bonnie Grace Cartwright, WHERE have you been?! We finished eating supper an hour ago!"

"At the library," Bonnie lied.

"Huh?"

"Yeah. I was helping a classmate study. I'm sorry that I missed dinner."

"It'd better not happen again."

"Yes ma'am."

And with that she went upstairs.

She shut the door behind her, turned on the fan overhead and lied down in bed. It felt cool and refreshing.

But relaxation was the last thing on Bonnie's mind.

"...How are we gonna do it?"

_We? Don't you mean me_?

"Yeah. How are you going to do the job?"

_Well, I'm not sure if a gun would be the right way to go about it. The police can track guns through the ammunition fired. Your dad's handgun is a registered firearm, so that wouldn't be a very good idea. If anything it might be him who'd end up in prison afterwards. Obviously I can't kill a grown man with my bare hands, or rather, your bare hands, so probably the only option that that leaves me with is_...

"Some kind of sharp implement," she finished. "A kitchen knife?"

Maybe, but I'm not sure if that'd be sharp enough...Hold on.

"Yes?"

_It was a few years ago, but I think I'm not mistaken. Your dad and Mr. Callaghan, they talked over the dinner table about, uh..._

"Huh?"

_Aw man, I don't think I remember. They said something about a knife. Like dad has a special knife or something_.

"I wonder if he's still awake."

_Let's go talk to him_.

* * *

**Friday, May 6, 1966**

_Bonnie, are you awake_?

"...Yeah. Let's do this."

When they asked her dad the other night, he nonchalantly told them about the Ka-Bar knife that he brought home from the war, and that he had it stored in a PO Box.

These past few days they hadn't had much opportunity to search for the key to such. They got one chance to search her parents' bedroom but turned up nothing.

Accordingly, they decided the best route would be to take a sharp kitchen knife with them.

They understood that if anybody ever found out about what they were about to do, the person inhabiting Bonnie's body would spend much of the rest of their life in prison. It was imperative, therefore, that this crime not be traced back to them. They could not afford any mistakes.

Bonnie had already taken the liberty of sneaking into Gordy's room and borrowing a shirt and jeans from him, alongside a belt. In addition, she'd prepared to roll her hair into a bun and cover it with a hat. These measures would serve to drastically lower the likelihood that people who drove past her and remembered seeing her would correctly identify her as a woman. If the police just assumed a male culprit (the natural assumption) then things would go much easier for her. Bonnie usually wore dresses (in the manner of the day) and did not have an overly tomboyish reputation.

If she tried to run off with her parent's car then the crime would very quickly be traced back to her. Riding her bicycle was also something that might possibly lead back to her after the deed was done. Therefore she resolved to walk. She was still in good shape, though she was no longer part of the track team, and she had all night to do it and then come back.

They agreed that Nobutaro would be the one to actually kill their target, a man whose name was Leroy Babineaux. If they got caught, he agreed to be the one who'd serve the prison sentence. As for where that'd leave Bonnie, well, they hadn't thought that far. Right now they were singularly focused on their mission.

Bonnie finished changing clothes and then slipped out the window. They'd positioned a ladder (taken from the car garage) beforehand so that she could climb down and then come back up when she came back, without having to go through the front door and the staircase inside the house. Once she'd returned she could kick down the ladder sideways so that it didn't look obvious. The fence behind the house would be enough to keep neighbors from seeing it after that point, and hopefully all of this would be done and out of the way before day broke.

Bonnie's feet touched the grass. In her hand she held the knife. She was not wearing gloves but they figured that they could bury the weapon somewhere, or even just wash it off and put it back in the kitchen (bloodborne disease was not a consideration that they'd factored in).

Knowing that it was going to be a very long night, she sighed. Earlier in the evening she'd set her alarm clock and taken a one-and-a-half hour nap, so as to not go into this endeavor totally sleep-deprived.

So far their execution had been perfect. But this night was only getting started.

They stepped off of the front yard and walked alongside the road. They had a flashlight prepared, but they weren't going to use it just yet. She took this moment to conceal the would-be murder weapon in her pocket from any possible onlookers.

A minute later, she heard the sound of a car engine roaring to life somewhere behind her. She paused for a moment but then resumed walking, confident that it was probably nothing that concerned the two of them.

* * *

What time was it? Was there any way of knowing? The safest bet, of course, was to assume that very little time remained, and so that, accordingly, they had to race against the clock to get back home.

But first things first.

They had arrived.

Shining the flashlight on the door to room #5 of the apartment complex, Nobutaro could feel the muscles in his/her chest tightening.

Would the front door really be the best approach? Granted, in this day and age many people slept with their doors unlocked. That had become less common in Wichita ever since the reign of terror of the so-called "Stigmata Killer" about eight years ago, but still. Even so, the sound of a door opening and footsteps might be enough to awaken the man of this domicile.

This is no time for indecision, he thought.

He grabbed the shirt that he/she was wearing and used it to grab and turn the doorknob without leaving fingerprints.

It was unlocked.

Despite his best efforts, the door still creaked loudly. He entered.

He shone his flashlight. Straight ahead was the kitchen.

He took several steps forward, and then he heard stirring from somewhere in the house.

He turned his flashlight off.

He looked around in the dark. Was there anywhere that was slightly illuminated?

And then he saw it, a glimmer from the other side of the home. A bathroom mirror reflecting some moonlight.

That won't do me much good, he thought. Not unless he goes to the bathroom...

Footsteps.

Realizing that if his target turned on the kitchen light he'd be screwed anyways, he stood deathly still, his heart racing.

*creak*

*creak*

*creak*

Shuffling. Nobutaro didn't dare even breathe as Mr. Babineaux walked by him in the dark. He knew that engaging under these conditions probably wouldn't end well for him.

And then, Nobutaro could not longer see the glimmer from the bathroom mirror. Mr. Babineaux blocked its view, and Nobutaro realized was what happening.

The bathroom light turned on, Mr. Babineaux entered, and shut the door behind him.

Nobutaro exhaled deeply, trembling in relief.

This was his chance. He just needed to stand facing the hallway, far enough that he wouldn't be visible when the door opened, and then charge when Mr. Babineaux stepped into view and turned the light off.

All it'd take was for him to plunge his blade into Mr. Babineaux's belly, and then pull it out and run away, out of the house.

He got into position and readied his knife. He sunk his feet in, and prepped himself mentally for charging forward at maximum speed.

And then he heard the shower turn on.

He's taking a shower? Nobutaro thought. Good grief, what time is it? He's doing that now? I can't sit around and wait for him to be done with this.

Still, despite himself he was relieved to have this breathing space between now and when Mr. Babineaux stepped out of the bathroom. At least he still had the element of surprise, which gave him one heck of a fighting chance.

Or so he thought.

_Tarokun, it's a trap! Get out of there! Now_!

"Huh?"

A couple of seconds later, he heard the door behind him creaking open.

Aw crap, he thought, turning around and beginning to freak out. There's somebody else here?!

And then whoever it was flicked the light switch.

Nobutaro was left standing there, out in the open, as visible as day, facing a fully clothed Mr. Babineaux, who'd apparently climbed out the window in the bathroom and doubled around back to catch the intruder in his home off-guard.

"Surprise, dipsh*t."

* * *

Noticing that deer-in-the-headlights look on this surprisingly young (and attractive) burglar's face, Mr. Babineaux broke the silence by blurting out:

"You here 'cuz of that dead n*gg*r."

"...What did you just say? Did you just call Mr. Hudson what I think you j-"

"Wait, that voice...Ooh, I remember you now. From the other day. I should've known ya weren't tryin' to sell me religion. Lemme guess, you were walking at night when my car drove past you with a screaming guy being dragged behind, little bits and pieces of him flying everywhere. Managed to get my license plate down pat in your head in the impressively short time that you must've had. Maybe you even got wind of the make and model of my car. Am I somewhere in the ballpark?"

"Why did you do it?"

"I did it for Watts, and the rest. Somebody's gotta make them remember their place. Ain't good for them to feel too emboldened. That never ends well for us."

Them, Nobutaro repeated mentally, cognizant of what group of people Mr. Babineaux was most likely referring to.

"And I did it for me too. See, life's been terribly boring for me lately. I almost gotta question why I'm still alive. I live alone, got no kids, not even a pet. But then it hit me. Well, rather, it's been here all along, but I just realized it a couple of weeks ago."

"Stiggie," he continued. "Here in Wichita tourists can come and buy mugs. T-Shirts. Visit the locations where his victims were found. There's a whole industry that popped up around glorifying the crimes of that nutjob. So I thought to myself, why can't that be me?"

He edged closer to the table in the middle of the room, and Nobutaro stepped back to keep his distance.

"I've only taken one life so far," Mr. Babineaux continued. "So it'll be at least one of two more victims before the media recognizes me as a serial killer and gives me a nickname. Maybe next time I should leave a note, to help shape the public's perception of me. How do I want to be known? Well, if I could choose...I'd like to brand myself as the ghost of a klansman on horseback, dragging lawless "freedmen" to their deaths to restore order to my local area. Yeah. That sounds good to me."

He opened the kitchen drawer and pulled out a knife, to Nobutaro's shock.

"I'm really glad that you came," he continued. "Even if your plan here tonight was to kill me. Because you're the one and only witness to my crime...And now I've got you RIGHT WHERE I WANT YOU!"

And with that he sprung into action.

"Bonnie look away now!"

Mr. Babineaux leapt onto the table and Nobutaro made a mad dash for the front door.

Cracking from the pressure, Nobutaro was unable to get the door open until-

Mr. Babineaux jumped forwards and managed to grab Nobutaro by the left arm.

The teenage boy/girl used this opportunity to stab Mr. Babineaux. But the man used his other hand to grab his other wrist mid-air, though it meant dropping his own weapon. He twisted Nobutaro's hand and made him drop his as well.

The teenage boy/girl being firmly in his grip, Mr. Babineaux was now able to fully utilize the radical difference in physical strength between the two.

Aged 40, Leroy Babineaux was not insanely muscular by the standards of men, but to someone of Bonnie's build he would've seemed like an absolute monster.

He threw grabbed his/her shoulders and literally threw Nobutaro slamming into the kitchen table more than a yard away. His/her spine hit the edge pretty hard.

Grunting, he kept his eyes fixed on the two knives that'd been dropped on the floor behind Mr. Babineaux.

_You can't beat him! Just run! Forget about killing him, we'll let the police handle this! Go now_!

But before he could respond-

*WHUMP*

With a hard kick to the ribcage, Nobutaro was down on the ground, coughing up blood, leaning against the side of the table helplessly.

"T-This is nothing..."

"Hmm?"

"I felt the pain of Charlie Hudson," he said, trying to stifle a groan. "You can beat the stuffing out of me all night long, but nothing you do will compare to that."

"Suit yourself."

He grabbed Nobutaro by the throat with both hands and lifted him up.

*wham*

He kneed Mr. Babineaux in the groin, but the man did not let go. If anything, his grip tightened, until Nobutaro could hardly breathe.

"You b*tch, I'll make you suffer..."

With what seemed to Tarokun like the strength of a gorilla Mr. Babineaux slammed his/her face into the table, jaw-first.

He did that three times.

Nobutaro could feel the impact on his/her teeth.

A lump in the back of his throat, he spat up a bloody tooth onto the table.

Grabbing him/her by the hair with one hand he was about to punch his teenage adversary in the face.

But instead he let go and pushed Nobutaro to the ground.

Crawling, he tried pathetically to get away, but then realizing that he was crawling in the direction opposite to the weapons.

His head throbbing, his nose broken.

And that was when he knew for sure that this was one giant mistake.

Mr. Babineaux reached into a high cabinet, took out a half-drunken bottle of scotch.

Nobutaro grabbed onto the refrigerator handle in a bid to stand up.

_I'm going in th_-

"NO!" he roared, a desperate command. "STAY BACK!"

"Ehh?" Mr. Babineaux said with a smirk. "But you're the one who came all the way to me."

*CRASH*

He held the bottle by the neck and smashed it into Bonnie Cartwright's head.

And everything went dark.

* * *

_"Whose turn is it to be my assistant?"_

_"Ooh, it's mine! It's mine!" a boy named Jonathan said, shooting his hand up._

_He stood behind the cardboard "wall", which was part of the puppetry set-up. Mrs. Matthews, in turn, also stood behind it and crouched down._

_Bonnie, sitting with her hands behind her supporting her weight, watched, and of course Tarokun watched through her._

_A manned sock puppet emerged above the "wall", that sock puppet bearing the approximate likeness of a person._

_"Hi, my name is Benaiah," Mrs. Matthews's voice said. "I'm a soldier in the army of King David. I lived 3,000 years ago. Do you children want to hear about the amazing thing I did?"_

_"Yeeees," the children answered in a cutesy voice._

_"One day there was a lion."_

_Jonathan stuck out his hand, upon which there was a sock-puppet of a lion._

_"Raaawr!" he said._

_"A lion is a very dangerous animal. It eats people for dinner. To save the people who were scared of the lion, I, Benaiah, chased after it!"_

_They re-enacted that scene with their puppets._

_"Finally," Mrs. Matthews said, "I chased the lion into a deep hole. If I jumped into the hole, I could defeat the lion in there and make sure nobody else got hurt. But if I jumped in, I might get eaten if it defeated me and not the other way around. A lion is a very powerful animal. It could tear me apart. Rip my arms off and beat me with them. But did I get scared and give up?"_

_"Noooo!" the children answered once more in a cutesy voice._

_"So what did I do? I JUMPED into the hole and FOUGHT the lion until it was dead! And you know what? I won! I beat the lion and the people were safe again! But I know that I didn't win because I was strong enough, or smart enough. No, I won because God was by my side. What's the moral of this story, kids? It's that if you have God on your side, you can do hard things. Things that you don't think you're able to do. Don't be like Jonah, who ran away because he was scared. Be like Bena-."_

* * *

Startled at having been violently smacked, Nobutaro was once more returned to this cruel reality.

His/her face drenched in what was definitely the smell of alcohol (Mr. Babineaux had poured it on his/her face to wake his opponent up), he was feeling lightheaded.

And that was how he knew that he probably had an open wound on the top of his head, from which blood was oozing out. He suffered massive internal hemorrhaging.

I'm going to die here, he realized.

Bonnie.

He couldn't sense Bonnie.

A sense of relief. Only he would die tonight. Not her. Bonnie would live.

He could feel his eyes tearing up.

He felt something being undone.

He tried to lift his/her head but before he could do that he felt the rest of it.

His/her pants were being pulled down.

"No...no, NO! What are you doing?!" he demanded.

With a cold, steely glare Mr. Babineaux answered:

"You're about to be dead anyway. I might as well have some fun with you before I have to do that."

Knowing that he didn't have the strength to fight back, Nobutaro wept bitterly.

"G-God..."

"God can't hear you. No one can. It's just you and me. That's the reality you brought upon yourself through your own stupid actions."

"In this...big world you made," Nobutaro whispered, "I know that you care about all of your children. Black...White...Asian...You love us all, no matter what we look like on the outside. Because you see only the heart. We are fearfully and wonderfully made...in your image. I know that it...must enrage you...to see anyone deliberately hurt your children. Give me strength, O Lord..."

Overwhelmed he choked up in his words. It was a couple of seconds before he could continue.

"Give me strength...to protect your children. All of your children, whoever they are. To kill lions and dragons...and monsters of all shapes and sizes...all of those who seek to hurt innocent people, no matter what their reason or excuse is. I empty myself of my own will, O God, because my heart yearns to see justice in my generation, no matter what the cost to me. Even if I must die tonight, far from the place where I call home, never again to see the girl that I love, at least...let me just...if only..."

He tried to move his body once more.

It wouldn't budge.

So was there nothing more...that could be done?

He felt his assailant put his hand on his/her thigh, when-

"Who the h*ll are you?"

*swick*

Nobutaro could feel himself being lifted up by someone. His/her weight was being supported by the strength of somebody else.

He could see Mr. Babineaux lying on the floor speechless, blood pouring from his throat.

Who is this? he wondered.

An angel?

"Come on, let's get out of here."

No, he thought. This voice. It's...

Mr. Yuri?

* * *

("Be Thou My Vision" by Kalafina, feat. Yuki Kajiura, instrumentals in "Celtic" style)

_Bi thusa mo shuile a ri mhor na nduil_

_Lion thusa mo bheatha, mo cheadfai's mo stuaim_

_Bi thusa i m'aigne gach oiche's gach la_

_Im chodladh no im dhuiseacht lion me le do gra_

_Bi thusa mo threoru i mbriathar is i mbeart_

_Fan thusa go deo liom is coinnigh me ceart_

_Glac curam mar athair is eist le mo ghui_

_Is tabhair domhsa ait conai istigh i do chroi_

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	8. Chapter 8

**An Ufotable Production**

**Sunday, May 8, 1966**

Maybe feigning a collision with a car wasn't the best way to go about it.

Mr. Yuri had devised the following cover story: late Friday night Bonnie had snuck out to meet with a boy in Wichita proper (as she was around that age). The evidence of this was the ladder on the ground; she didn't want to sneak in and out of the house through the back so she used that to climb out the window. As she was walking a bit too close to the road on her way back (to wherever place, to meet whatever unnamed boy), a relatively slow-moving car swerved and hit her, and then drove off in a panic. Badly injured, she cried out for help and was found by Mr. Yuri, who was out taking a late night stroll. He provided basic, life-saving care on scene by stopping the bleeding from her head (this part was true) and then they flagged a taxi, which took her to a hospital.

Her parents were contacted early the next morning (Saturday). Unfortunately, this cover story meant that the family would have to spend money on a service that Bonnie didn't necessarily need, though Yuri pointed out that she likely had a concussion after Nobutaro (in her body) was hit on the head with a glass bottle that shattered. The medical technology of 1966 was limited enough that doctors were largely unable to check for a concussion beyond giving her an X-Ray and examining the results. Still, the fact that she was still alive two days later, and her mental faculties fully intact, meant that she was probably fine now.

It was Tarokun who'd suffered the blunt of the pain from Mr. Babineaux's brutal beating (though she'd been knocked unconscious by him having been so), but after the fact it was her who had to deal with being in an injured body. She would be permanently missing a tooth, her nose would take a while to heal, and her black eye would be quite visible for some time. Still, her arms and legs were still working fine, so in theory they could just go back out there and-

No. If Bonnie had anything to do with it, they'd never do anything that stupid again. Nobutaro very nearly died, after all. They were lucky that the deed of murdering Mr. Babineaux was committed by Mr. Yuri, and that they'd just attempted it rather unfruitfully, though in any case the Wichita police at this time had no evidence linking the murder back to either Bonnie or Mr. Yuri, treating it rather as a crime somehow related to the Stigmata Killer.

Bonnie heard the door creaking open. A hand pulled back the curtain.

It was Mr. Yuri. He sat down next to her bed.

"We need to talk."

That much was obvious. But Bonnie had no idea what to say to this man.

But Nobutaro, on the other hand, did have a question, so...

*vreeng*

"Why were you following us."

"Us?"

"...Me. I'm sorry. Me. Why were you following me."

"My ex-wife told me you'd probably go looking for the murderer of Charlie Hudson."

There was a pause.

"Oh. That's right. You probably don't know what I mean by ex-wife. I may or may not have told you that I never married. Well, that's not quite true. In 1950 I had a marriage with a woman that lasted a couple of months. You've met her before, many times. You know her as Mrs. Matthews."

"You were married to Mrs. Matthews?!"

"Yes," Mr. Yuri said. "Suffice to say, it didn't last very long. She believed in God, I did not. As a result she came to fear that we were 'unequally yoked'. And there were...other stresses on the relationship as well. Mainly work-related, though I'd rather not go into that. The marriage lasted less than six months. At that point I realized both of us were miserable. I took the initiative of breaking up the union and filing for divorce, so that she wouldn't have to do something that conflicted with her faith, being instead an unwilling victim of my inability to stay committed. I still believe that it was the right thing to do."

"She never mentioned you before."

Mr. Yuri shrugged. "Why would she? It's her secret shame, that she's a divorced woman. Anyways, I thought she was talking nonsense. Bonnie Cartwright, in the time that I've known you, a vigilante killer is not something that I've ever thought of you as being. But she insisted that the look in your eyes 'told her everything', and so, just to be safe, I did follow you. I saw you riding on your bike across town, and Friday night I saw you briefly test your flashlight outside your house, which alerted me to your intentions of sneaking out."

"Your car was parked out there?"

"Yes. I was just about to nod off too, when it happened. So shame on you for ruining my sleep."

Nobutaro didn't know how to respond to that but to chuckle awkwardly.

"So that we're clear," Mr. Yuri said, suddenly very serious. "That man. In that house. You came to him first, aiming to take his life, because you thought that he was the man who killed Charlie Hudson."

"I didn't 'think' that he was. I knew it. Beyond any shadow of a doubt."

"Oh? And how's that?"

"...I don't think that you'd believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

Nobutaro breathed in and then exhaled, deeply and slowly. "What I'm about to tell you, you must promise me never to repeat to anybody."

"Alright. I think I can live with that. What are you about to tell me?"

"My life story. To start...my name isn't Bonnie."

* * *

**Also Sprach Zarathustra: VIII: Melchizedek**

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Monday, May 9, 1966**

For the first time in two days Bonnie stepped outside.

The wind felt hot. The sun was too bright. But at least she was going home. Life would return to normal and she'd be putting this messy business of murderers and retribution behind her.

Except something was different. For the first time in their lives, there was another person in Wichita who knew their secret.

Bonnie got into Mr. Yuri's car and strapped herself in.

The seating felt hot, the car was stuffy, and it smelled kind of funny. That last thing was to be expected, of course.

He closed the door, and a few seconds later turned the key in the ignition.

They'd be on their way to Bonnie's house. And she expected perfectly well that they'd be having one last talk about what happened.

Well, be that as it was, she'd still be taking piano lessons from him, so she couldn't really get away from him. But strangely enough she didn't really want to. It felt refreshing, having somebody else to talk to about all of this. Perhaps Saturdays would be a lot more enjoyable now.

"...So," he started off. "What are your plans."

"My plans?"

"Assuming I'm talking to Bonnie right now," Mr. Yuri said. "You and Tarocoon have already gone after one killer. You didn't do it as revenge for him going after somebody you knew personally, but because your instinctive reaction was to pursue justice. Well, rather, that was Tarocoon's reaction."

"What's your point?"

"My point is, you're not done and you know it. You're just getting started."

"Look," Bonnie said. "That was a one-time thing, okay? Tarokun almost got himself killed. He's not going out there and doing it again. I won't let him."

"I think that's up for him to decide."

"We're of one accord on this matter," Bonnie said. "I already spoke to him."

"Oh? So he's giving up that easy?"

"Giving...up? What do you think it is that he did?"

"Like I said. He tried to make things right, get justice for a man who was robbed of his life. Somebody like him, I don't think there's really any other way for him to live. Now, you know there are other murderers out there. Serial killers, even. Stiggie was never caught, and everybody knows that in theory he could just pick back up where he started any day now. If Tarocoon's purpose in life is to punish evil people, he will never run out of evil people to go after. It's really that simple. They're in every major city, every country. They live among us and pretend to be normal when other people are watching. But Tarocoon won't be so easily fooled by their facades. I guess you could call him the King of Hearts, even."

"If...no, *when* he decides to continue on this path," Mr. Yuri concluded, "he's going to need my help. He almost died Friday night, like you said. If I hadn't been there, heard the sound of glass breaking...well, it happened because he's a complete amateur. He doesn't know the first thing about fighting."

"And you do?"

"Ooooh yeah," he said, very sure of himself. "You might not remember, but...it took me like two or three seconds to slit Mr. Babineaux's throat. That was his name, right? Anyways, the reason I was able to do that so easily is because I've had plenty of time and on-hand experience to perfect the art of assassination. Plus, I had a great teacher."

"Just who are you exactly?" Bonnie wondered out loud.

"Compared to someone like Tarocoon, I am nobody."

Silence.

"Again, I'm sure that right now you have no intention of accepting my offer. But you'll come around eventually. Bonnie, Tarocoon. When you do...well, you know where I live. My door will always always be open to the two of you."

They arrived.

Without saying a word Bonnie got out of the car and walked to the front door, where her mother and father were waiting.

* * *

Within ten minutes of Bonnie getting home she was reminded by Stacey that her aunt Katherine would be visiting in a few weeks. Bonnie accordingly asked that she not be told about what happened, so that it wouldn't cast a gloomy atmosphere over the occasion.

They agreed, since Bonnie's injuries apparently weren't too serious. However, for that same reason her parents were willing to turn to the subject of her sneaking out in the first place. As punishment, her father confiscated her bicycle for the month (which didn't make much sense considering that Bonnie'd walked the distance to wherever she'd gone that night). Wherever she went she'd have to walk, until come June the 1st. In addition, she would not be able to watch TV during that same time frame.

As soon as she was finished wrapping things up with her family she called a girl at school who she was (loose) friends with and asked permission to take a look at Monday's notes, considering that she'd missed a day of school on account of what happened. The girl, Susie, took the call as an opportunity to bombard her with questions about exactly what happened, for which Bonnie knew she would be getting a lot of unwanted attention tomorrow when she returned to class. She knew there'd be rumors circling that she was seeing a boy other than that "Nobutaro" guy she was always blabbing on about. Did that mean that the plans for him to come to America had been called off? Or had she been making it up all along? There were many students who wouldn't put it past her.

Bonnie showered early that evening, and soon she retired for the night to her bedroom, a single lamp illuminating her surroundings.

She could hear the sound of "The Twilight Zone" (a re-run episode) playing from downstairs. Both her mom and dad had gone to bed by now, with only Gordy staying up (to watch the aforementioned show). Bonnie herself wasn't really tired, because the past couple days all she'd been doing was lying down in a hospital bed.

In addition, she and Nobutaro had a very important matter to discuss.

"I'm glad that sordid affair is out of the way now," she said. "Right or wrong, it was a distraction."

_You mean that thing we were planning before_?

"Don't give me that flippant attitude," she said with a hint of annoyance. "We're talking about your freedom here."

_Yeah, but I only have one shot at this. I don't know how they'll respond if I'm caught in the act. For all I know I might end up with a bullet through the temple, buried six feet under in an unmarked grave_.

"Um, listen, about that..."

_No way_.

"You risked your life the other day. It should be my turn now."

_No. Friday night was my choice. And if I try to run from the Men in Black that'll be my choice as well, and it'll be concerning my freedom_.

"But-

_Bonnie, I will *never* place your life in danger, for any reason. In either your own body or in mine, you're going to live. I won't let anything happen to you. Absolutely not_.

"Yes, but if it boils down to my own choice to-

_I will not let you make a choice like that_.

"Excuse me?"

_You do not get to decide to play Russian Roulette with your life. I will always veto such a decision, and that veto will always override what you think you want_.

"Who do you think you are?" she asked with indignation.

_I'm your future husband, d*mmit_!

...

...

"What?"

_There. I said it. I'll say it again, so that there's no confusion, because this is something I need to get off my chest at long last. Bonnie, I lov_-

"Stop right there, I don't want to hear it!"

She covered her ears, though of course that wouldn't have done any good to block a message being transmitted directly to her brain.

_H-Huh..._?

"I know what you were about to say. That thing you've never told me before. Something that...to be honest, I do kind of want to hear you say to me, if only to know how it feels. But once you cross that line, I don't know if things between a man and a woman can be the same afterwards. So for both our sakes, just..."

There was a long pause.

Ten seconds passed. And then:

"Just don't say it," she finished.

_...Not ever_?

She didn't know how to answer that.

She got in bed, turned the lamp off, curled into a fetal position and pulled a sheet over the bottom portion of her legs.

"Goodnight, Tarokun," she said sadly.

* * *

**Saturday, May 14, 1966**

*rrrrrreeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnggggggg*

Obnoxious as it was, time was of the essence today.

"Tarokun, wake up."

_Yeah, yeah, I'm up_.

"What time is it on your end?"

_Looks dark out. But I suppose it should be exactly 14 hours ahead of Wichita. What's the clock say_?

"7:11."

So that means the guard's gonna be done for the night in about an hour. Protocol dictates that one leaves when someone else arrives to relieve him, but from my observation oftentimes they don't follow this rule exactly. Frequently the guard who's about to leave will get into his car and drive off within seconds of the other guy's car arriving on scene. So they don't even make contact with each other in such instances. That's good, I can work with that. The main problem is-

"You don't know whether the walls are soundproof," Bonnie finished. "Weren't you supposed to test that out?"

_I did. It turns out that the guard can hear me if I make enough noise and bang on the metal door. But they are not to open the door without authorization from a superior officer, which basically means Mr. Suzuki, Gin, Vodka, and the quartermaster_.

By quartermaster Nobutaro meant the man who's in charge of making sure Nobutaro had enough food and water, that his chamber pot was changed out, that he had enough toilet paper, and so on.

He continued:

_They're instructed not to interact with me at all. If I try talking to them, they're not to listen. They're not to give me any opportunity to get through to them and cause them to sympathize with my plight, or to be able to trick them in some way that facilitates my escape. That is to say, in theory it shouldn't be a problem that the guard locked in here in my stead would be able to speak to the guard outside. But there's always that chance that the guard outside will recognize his comrade's voice and open the door. Alternately, since I don't normally have a habit of screaming and banging on the door he might realize something's up and at least open the door to check it out_.

"Well, everything doesn't have to go swimmingly. If you can simply drive away from the compound in a working vehicle with sufficient gas, and with at least two or three minutes' head start, then you should have everything you need to succeed, right?"

_One can only hope. Bonnie, what I'm about to do constitutes an extreme, unprecedented gamble. Are you sure this is the day_?

"Yes! We've put this off long enough. Tarokun, you will be a free man tod-uhh, that is, tonight. This is 10 years overdue. You could've lived in the temple, enjoyed a fairly decent childhood at least. Perhaps you might've even been adopted long ago, and grew up among a kind family."

_I already did_.

"As heartwarming as I find the sentiment, you know that's not what I meant. The Black Organization ruined your childhood. In hindsight nothing can be done to change the past, but you don't have to let these same people ruin your adulthood. The rest of your life lies ahead of you. You just have to reach out and take it. The next hour will decide your future."

She shook her head.

"No, not just your future. Our future."

He could feel his heart racing.

_D-Does that mean_-

"I don't know what that meant. I don't know why I said it. But whatever we are to each other, I'll be waiting for you. In a tiny little blip on the map called Wichita, Kansas."

He smiled.

_Never heard of it_, he said sarcastically. _But soon I'll be able to step foot there, with my own body. Alright, this is it. Bonnie, wish me luck_.

"To blazes with 'luck'. If God is with us, who can be against us?"

Gordy stepped in. "Hey, breakfast is ready."

"Alright. I'll be down in a minute."

* * *

Bonnie stepped out of the car.

She walked to the front door and knocked.

Mr. Yuri answered it and let her in.

He then briefly stepped outside to grab the newspaper (which'd been placed in his mailbox just two minutes earlier) and then came back inside with it, closing the door behind him.

Bonnie looked at the clock on his wall. The time now was 7:59.

"You mind telling me why we're doing this an hour early?" Yuri asked.

"My mom's attending a town hall meeting later."

"I see."

"So, um, she'd also appreciate it if you could drop me home," Bonnie said.

He nodded. "Okay."

Bonnie sat down on the piano bench.

_Looks like it'll be showtime in about ten minutes_.

"Ten minutes," Bonnie repeated.

"Ten minutes for what?" Yuri asked.

"Uh, nothing."

She played a chromatic scale to warm up.

Yuri put Robert Schumann's "The Wild Horseman" in front of her. An easy enough song that she was just playing it as something on the side.

Then he sat at his desk and continued reading the day's paper. He was good enough that even while he was reading he could still pick up on even slight errors in Bonnie's reproduction of the piece.

She was midway through the song when he interrupted her:

"Huh. Look at this."

She stopped playing and faced him.

"Right here. Page C. Middle of the page."

He handed it to her and pointed.

"Doesn't that sound like something worth checking out?"

Bonnie read the article.

Before she knew it, Nobutaro was reading as well.

_Hold your eyes steady so I can see it_, he protested.

Knowing very well that Mr. Yuri had them right where he wanted them, Bonnie let out:

"Oh. Crap."

Yesterday afternoon the police had discovered the body of Joleen Foster (age 44) in her home garage, who'd died by way of asphyxiation from the fumes of her car. A toxicology report also turned up the presence of a sedative in her bloodstream. They believed that she'd been dead since the night prior.

The police's conclusion was that in a suicidal frenzy she'd tried downing pills, but that when they didn't kick in fast enough she hastily resorted to suffocating herself with her car.

"That doesn't match the way people normally behave," Yuri said. "And you know it...Tarokun."

_Bonnie, my escape is going to have to wait. We're gonna find this person. And, with Mr. Yuri's help, this time I'll be ready for him_.

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Sunday, May 15, 1966**

"Tarokun, how do you hold a knife? And I don't mean when you're in the kitchen. When you're in a fight, how should you hold a knife?"

"Umm, well, I've never been in a fight," Nobutaro said. "So I wouldn't know."

"That's a good answer, but also a bad answer. What do you want to accomplish in a fight?"

"To beat the other guy?"

"Yes, but if you're using a knife then I think you want more than just to beat him up. Your objective in that case is either to scare him off or to kill him. Whatever eliminates the threat to your person or otherwise accomplishes your goal. So either way you have to know how to use good grip."

"Now, I don't think your goal is to go around picking fights on the street," Yuri said. "If you want to kill someone, you want to get it done with quickly and without hassle. So in that case let's assume an ambush of some kind. There are two kinds of ambushes. In Scenario A, he doesn't know you're even there until BAM! Do it right and he won't have time to defend himself before he's got a little present lodged six inches into his chest. In Scenario B, he knows you're there but he doesn't know you're about to attack him. Again, do it right and he won't have time to defend himself. The second approach can be every bit as deadly as the first, if implemented effectively. If attempting the second, you're gonna need to learn how to fastdraw."

"Fastdraw?" Nobutaro asked, confused.

"You ever seen one of those Westerns? They grab their gun from their holster really fast and shoot. It all takes like one second. That's a fast draw. Now, overall you can't act quite that fast if you're using a knife, but you can draw your blade from its sheath or scabbard just as easily as you can a gun, if not easier. The faster you draw your knife, the less time to respond your enemy will have. And that's good news for you, obviously. That's something you're gonna want to practice."

"But for now," he continued, "we're gonna talk about grip. There are two broad categories of knife-holding method. There's forward grip and reverse grip. Both are pretty straightforward to define. With forward grip, your thumb is closet to the blade of all your fingers, and the farthest from the butt of the hilt, which in some knifes is a prominent feature called a pommel. If you're gonna use a army-grade weapon and not a kitchen knife then it's going to have a pommel. That's just the way it works. With reverse grip, your thumb is closest to the pommel of all your fingers, and farthest from the blade."

Nobutaro tried these two grips out for his/her self.

"Reverse grip is bad in a normal fight," Yuri said bluntly. "You can't slash very well with it and it's especially bad for attacking at low angles. But it's good for stabbing, because you can put a lot more power into your movement. Get more bang for your buck, or so to speak. If you're gonna catch somebody by surprise, and especially if that person isn't an experienced knife fighter or martial arts expert, you might want to go with a reverse grip strike. You can put both hands into it, to sink your weight and body strength into the knife's movement. And believe me, if you're gonna be fighting grown men in that body you're gonna need all the strength and weight you can get. Now, there's also the question of finger posture. Obviously, your thumb is going to want to be clenching the knife tightly. If any finger is off the knife, your grip is going to be much weaker, and without a good grip you can't make the knife do exactly as you want it to do when you're swinging or thrusting it at high force. Lose control of your knife and that's it, you've lost already, unless you can somehow manage to regain control."

"What if there's nowhere for my thumb?" Nobutaro asked.

"Then you're holding it wrong," Yuri said. "Either you can place your thumb on the pommel, which does wonders for the strength of your grip, or you can place it on the knife part itself, just above the handle, right in the middle. It wouldn't be touching the serrated edges, so your thumb would be in no danger. That's how you ought to hold it when employing a forward grip. Just squeeze tight and keep it from drifting left or right. And with that you should be A-Okay. Do you understand what I'm putting out?"

Nobutaro nodded.

"Good. Now show me."

Nobutaro obliged. Yuri grabbed his hand and corrected its posture.

"Like that, yeah. Now show me reverse grip."

The teenage boy presently in a teenage girl's body complied.

"Perfect. Now that you know how to hold a knife, I guess we're done."

There was a pause.

"Nah, just kidding," Yuri said. "Now we gotta work on your stance. There are many different ways to stand, and some are definitely more preferable than others. You want to be able to sink some of your weight into your attack, but you also want to keep your balance when charging forward. If you miss, you'll need to be able to respond quickly."

"Mr. Yuri."

"Hmm?"

"Why are you helping me?"

"So that you don't die."

"...Really? That's it?"

"Yeah. I spent all this time teaching you, or, rather, Bonnie, to play the piano. If you die out there that'll kind of have been for nothing, right?"

_That's not the only reason_, Bonnie said to Nobutaro. _He wants to pass on his hard-learned skills to somebody, because he knows he'll be dead in a few years or decades_.

"Ehh? Well, I guess that makes sense. So does that mean he thinks of us as a-

"Get out of my head!" Mr. Yuri protested, feeling hot. "Screw this you little turd! Are you going to shut up and listen or not?!"

"S-Sorry."

"Good. And don't ever probe my mind without permission again. Now, where were we...Ah yes. Stances. Watch closely at the way my hips and shoulders are pivoted."

* * *

_The next couple of days after school we would be picked up by Mr. Yuri and we'd train._

_I stood in the tall field of clover, on the outskirts of town, brandishing a butter knife. More for my safety than for his._

_I learned to distract and deflect, and then to charge suddenly. If my opening attack was not to his satisfaction he was always quick to make his displeasure known. Usually that meant he'd defend himself rather violently, throwing me to the ground and making me search alone for the weapon that I'd inevitably end up losing somewhere._

_He instilled in me a principle: Without me, my weapon is useless. Without my weapon, I am useless. If I lost my weapon in a real fight, I was as good as dead. If I failed to gain the upper hand in the first five seconds of a fight, my odds of victory were slim. The element of surprise was my most critical asset, without which I had little else going for me. I did just about everything wrong in my fight with Mr. Babineaux, though he commended my initial strategy of ambushing the man as he emerged from the shower. He berated my choice of a weapon as "unprofessional" and said that a smaller knife could be both more easily concealed and more quickly deployed._

_He said all of this with such confidence, as though he'd done many, many times before what I was just learning to do now. To kill an unsuspecting person. He was the master, and I knew that I could learn a lot from him._

_He wanted to spend longer on me, but I wouldn't let him. Because I wanted to get back out into the field as soon as possible, to catch the "auto-asphyxiation killer", whose existence was confirmed to us after a second victim soon turned up._

* * *

**Friday, May 20, 1966**

Having gathered a bundle of sticks, Yuri took a lighter out of his coat pocket and cooked up a nice roaring fire for them.

They sat down, having concluded a long day of training.

"We should've brought marshmallows," Bonnie said.

"Who am I talking to right now?"

"It's me, Bonnie again."

"Hmm. Is Tarokun still there?"

"He is. But he's feeling tired and he's going to bed early."

Silence.

"Mr. Yuri, were you really married to Mrs. Matthews?"

"I was."

"How did the two of you meet?" she asked.

"Well, I can't go into all the details, but...I had some work-related business in a place called White Sands, in New Mexico. It was government-owned land but I was called in after we received complaints that there were trespassers hiding out on somewhere on the property. Sure enough, I took care of the problem and was eager to head back. But it was late so I stopped at a room and board."

He continued: "Now what I didn't know was that there was a sanatorium in the area. Mrs. Matthews, or as I called her, Jenny, was discharged from there that same day and was waiting to catch a bus home in the morning, so we were both spending the night at the same establishment. Her family lived in Pennsylvania and she hadn't seen them in a long time. I...saw her outside, in the evening. Her silhouette. I sat down beside her on the steps and we spent, I don't know, hours and hours just talking. About whatever popped into our heads. About life, poems, hobbies, riddles and jokes...I swear that it was nearly daylight when we wrapped it up, and I wasn't tired by the end of it. Because I'd never met anyone like her. Talking to Jenny, I realized that I wanted to keep talking with her."

"I asked her for her home address," he continued. "She told me, and one month later, I drove all the way just to visit her. We spent a week there together, and finally I asked her to marry me and follow me back west. She accepted and we were married in a short ceremony."

"One week?"

He nodded. "I thought I knew everything about her that I needed to know. But I didn't, and I didn't know myself as well as I thought either. I thought it could work, but..."

"Neither one of us was cut out for the married life," he concluded. "Or if we were, we just weren't meant for each other."

"Do you still love her?" Bonnie asked.

"Hmm? What a silly question. The qualities that drew me to her in the first place, she still has those, I'm sure. Sometimes I still think about her, or even entertain the idea of trying to get back together with me, since we both live in Wichita now. But our marriage was a bad idea before, so I don't see why things would be any different now. Indeed, the factors that ultimately spelled failure for our union, those are also still present. So there's not much point thinking about it, or in asking questions like that."

There was a pause.

Bonnie expected him to say something else about Mrs. Matthews. But instead:

"You're ready."

"Wait, what?"

"Well, Tarokun is. If you yourself aren't going to be fighting then I guess you don't really factor into this. Tomorrow morning, when Tarokun is awake, tell him. He has my permission to go out and hunt down Wichita's latest serial killer. Well, this guy seems more of a cowardly, deceitful type, so I'm going to go out on a limb and assume he's not going to be anywhere near as physically capable as Mr. Babineaux was. So longer as he remembers everything I taught him, and as long as you do everything you can to support him, the two of you should turn out fine."

"...What if I don't want to?"

"Huh?"

"Tarokun wants this. But I don't. I don't want to see anyone else die..."

"Which is exactly why you need to get on board with this, Bonnie. It's one life, of a guilty man, versus the lives of all of the people who our guy's going to kill in the future if given the opportunity to keep on living. So far the auto-asphyxiation killer has a body count of two. It could climb well beyond that. Stiggie took six victims, after all, and if he wanted to he very well could've kept on going. There's no guarantee that our guy is going to stop at three, four, five, or even six people."

"And in any case," he concluded, "to save even one innocent life is worth it, in my book."

They sat in front of the fire, pondering the future, until it died.

"Come on," Yuri said. "Let's take you home."

They got in the car and were on their way.

* * *

Soon it started raining, and Bonnie was nodding off in her seat.

Yuri glanced at her. But what he saw was not a girl but rather the boy on the other end.

He knew that if anyone found out what he was up to, what he'd been training a kid to do, they'd call him a monster, or at least wildly irresponsible. He was sending this kid off to be a sacrificial lamb, to tread the path of suffering that was the due allotment of a murderer.

Yuri's father was a priest. As the oldest son of a priest (though he had several older sisters), he would've been expected to carry on in his father's footsteps. The Russian Revolution and the subsequent communist takeover derailed that.

But his father wouldn't be so easily deterred. Even in America he tried to impose on his son the responsibilities of helping tend to the spiritual needs of the local Russian Orthodox community. But Yuri rebelled, because he couldn't devote his life in service to a God that he did not believe in.

The other day, in the hospital, when Nobutaro told him his story, the boy had included his own family's history so far as had been relayed to him by the man known as Hajime Suzuki. Nobutaro himself came from a lineage of priests and priestesses, albeit of a totally different religion. And that was what convinced Yuri.

"The son of a priest shall inherit the responsibilities of his father". That was an idea which Yuri believed in even now, even though he rejected God.

Because what was the duty of a priest? Was it not to sacrifice himself to tend to the most pressing needs of the many? Yuri could not reject this calling. He'd just carried out this duty in a differing manner.

It'd been during the Second World War. 25 year old Yuri Hrytsuk was a young man, in good physical condition. The kind of person that the army needed. But as much as he hated the Nazis, he hated the Bolsheviks more, because his family knew their evil firsthand. He refused to fight for a cause whose ultimate outcome would include the salvation of the Soviet Union from destruction. Being given draft orders would not change his mind in this regard.

Malcontents like him? The army had plenty of experience with them. Lock them up. But no, not this time. Because somebody within J. Edgar Hoover's inner circle saw something in him. He was, after all, a White Emigre, whose father had passed on invaluable skill sets to him. Skills that would prove most useful in tracking down and killing Soviet spies and infiltrators within the United States. He was given a deal, to work for the FBI as their silent enforcer. In this capacity he worked from 1943 until 1952. With his own two hands he'd killed more people than he could keep track of.

But it had been his duty as the son of a priest. Even if now he lived as an empty shell of a man, frequently drinking to excess in order to drive out the ghosts haunting him day and night. Though it contributed to the destruction of his marriage. Though it left him unable to move on with his life afterwards, and caused him to waste the past 14 years.

He saw that Nobutaro could not resist his calling either. To restore peace to this town, by eliminating anyone who threatened said peace. Nobutaro was called to the house of Leroy Babineaux, and yes, one day he would even take on the Stigmata Killer.

Secular priests. That was one way to think of them both. What they both did could be compared to exorcisms. Both were destined to be miserable, though Nobutaro didn't realize it just yet. As one priest to another, Yuri knew that it was his duty to help ensure Nobutaro's success in his crusade that would inevitably last a lifetime.

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Saturday, May 21, 1966**

They opened their eyes and looked up at the clock.

It was about the normal time for them to get up. So why, then, did they feel like they'd forgotten to do something impor-

"Dang it!"

Last night Nobutaro had woken up to the feeling of a cold shower. Afterwards Bonnie relayed Yuri's message, and they then discussed how they might get their hands on a weapon that met their teacher's standards. A true instrument of homicide.

More specifically, there was the question of her dad's Ka-Bar knife. It wasn't in his room, or elsewhere in the house. They could only think of two other possibilities: first, that it was kept somewhere at the Post Office, with the supposition that the employees knew him and were willing to do him a favor of that nature. Second, he simply kept the key in his car.

But alas, they were just now waking up, after Chad had already gone to work.

They knew it'd be the evening before he came back. If he stopped after work to go to the Round Robin with Kevin and Mr. Callaghan it could be considerably longer than that.

_Unless_...

* * *

The key dangling in her hand, Bonnie stepped out of the car.

"Thank you Mr. Yuri."

"No problem. Be back in a jiffy though. We're having a shorter lesson today, not no lesson at all."

She'd asked Mr. Yuri if they could stop by the police station so she could search her dad's car.

They did so, and sure enough it was under the driver's seat. After that was done they drove straight here.

They headed inside.

"Hello," Bonnie said, holding the key so the woman behind the counter could see it. "I'm here on behalf on my dad, Chad Cartwright. Do you know what PO box belongs to him?"

"If you'll give me a minute I'll be happy to check."

They waited.

It wasn't long before she came back and said:

"It'll be box number 195."

She nodded. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They strolled down the empty aisle eyeing the numbers until they came across box no. 195.

They inserted the key.

And turned it.

It opened.

"These are dad's prized possessions," Bonnie noted, curious as to what was all inside.

She quickly spotted the knife and put it in her pocket.

_Alright, let's ask Mr. Yuri what he thinks of it_.

"Wait, I wanna see what's here."

She rummaged through it whenever she came across it. The back side of what was clearly a photograph.

They took it out and examined the front side, the picture etched onto it.

"Who is this?" Bonnie wondered out loud. "That's dad, and the other person is...?"

Weird.

Very weird.

_Bonnie, hold on just a second. I wanna check something real fast_.

"Huh?"

_I don't know, like I'm getting deja vu looking at that. Just stand right there and I'll be back shortly_.

He disconnected.

And stood up in his cell.

He walked across the room to where something was taped to the wall.

It couldn't be, he thought, incredulous. Could it...?

...

...

_Alright, I'm back. Can I have another look at that_?

Bonnie obliged.

"What's this about?"

_Nothing. It's nothing. We're done here. Put it back_.

Shrugging, she put the photo back as she found it and closed it shut.

And then she paused.

"Hey, you don't think...that dad had an affair, did he?"

Then she looked around. There was nobody here, but it still perhaps wasn't the best idea to blurt something like that in a public place.

"Do you think we should ask him about who this woman is?"

_No_.

Bonnie was more than a little surprised at the forcefulness in his voice.

But she had to admit he had a point. Something like this could destroy her entire family. It'd probably happened years and years ago, before she was even born. The man who'd raised her didn't seem to be anything like an adulterer. Rather, he'd always been a caring husband and father so far as she knew.

She was left feeling very confused right now. That was for sure. But perhaps it would indeed be best to keep this dirty secret buried. Who could possibly benefit, after all?

But that perhaps wasn't the best call. Because if she'd confronted her father, she could've at least gotten the name of the woman in question. And then she would've known what Nobutaro now knew.

* * *

The woman's name was Naoko. Naoko Hanazawa. She'd been impregnated by Chad Cartwright, an American sailor stationed at Yokosuka naval base. The name of their child was Nobutaro, a boy born with psychic powers.

Bonnie was his half-sister. And Gordy his half-brother.

Nobutaro knew he could never tell her. Not after he'd confessed his feelings. He could not face up to something so shameful.

But to be clear, she was romantically off-limits to him now. Now and forever.

So where did that leave him...?

What was he supposed to do now?

* * *

("Be Thou My Vision" by Kalafina, feat. Yuki Kajiura, instrumentals in "Celtic" style)

_Bi thusa mo shuile a ri mhor na nduil_

_Lion thusa mo bheatha, mo cheadfai's mo stuaim_

_Bi thusa i m'aigne gach oiche's gach la_

_Im chodladh no im dhuiseacht lion me le do gra_

_Bi thusa mo threoru i mbriathar is i mbeart_

_Fan thusa go deo liom is coinnigh me ceart_

_Glac curam mar athair is eist le mo ghui_

_Is tabhair domhsa ait conai istigh i do chroi_

* * *

**To Be Continued**

(Author's Note: Episode 1 chronologically comes after 2-8, but keep in mind that it was the first episode I wrote. There might be some discrepancies between episode 1 and this, because way back then I didn't really know where I was going with the overall story. I had a basic concept of where I wanted to go with this but the way that it ultimately turned out diverged from the original in certain respects. Just chalk up such instances to "early installment weirdness" and move on. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading this and be sure to leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you!)


	9. Chapter 9

**An Ufotable Production**

**1984**

_"We now return to _Keeping up with the Cartwrights!_"_

_*applause from audience*_

_A hard-working dad in his early-to-mid 30s, wearing a red plaid shirt and dirty work jeans. A man with distinct Asian features, but with a goatee._

_The setting: a large middle-class home in suburban America. A family of four._

_He took the mixer from the bottom cabinet onto the kitchen table and put the metal bowl under it._

_Entrusted by his wife with baking a cake for Junior's birthday, he consulted the recipe book._

_"One part flour...check. Two eggs..."_

_He opened the refrigerator and checked._

_"Dagnabbit. Honey, we got any eggs?"_

_"Yes, in the fridge in the basement!" his wife called out from across the house._

_"Alright, thanks!"_

_He came back up from the basement a minute later holding an egg carton._

_He placed it on the table, opened it up, and-_

_"What on earth is this?"_

_His wife, a__ woman in her early to mid 30s. She still looked quite youthful. She was sporting a short, top-heavy hairstyle in the 80s fashion. Along with that she was wearing a dark-blue shirt with a v-neck and blue jeans._

_That woman was Bonnie._

_She answered nonchalantly: "Pickled quail eggs."_

_Nobutaro blinked in confusion._

_*laughter*_

_"Honey, I meant eggs for the cake."_

_"You should've been more specific," she said._

_*laughter*_

_He sighed. "I'm going to the store. Umm, since I'll be driving by the baseball field, do you need me to pick up Junior?"_

_"No need. The team van will take him home."_

_They heard the sound of a car pulling up._

_Bonnie looked out the window._

_"Speaking of which..."_

_The door opened._

_A preteen to early teenage boy walked in._

_The boy, "Junior", had a malformed face._

_"Hi mommy and daddy," he said in a slurred voice. "I is hooome!"_

He woke up with a jolt and sat up.

Nobutaro, still a teenager in 1966, looked left and right in his cell, confirming his surroundings.

He felt like he wanted to puke.

Just yesterday he'd found out the truth concerning his exact relationship to Bonnie. It explained a lot, such as why, out of all the billions of people in the world, he'd reached out to her as a small child.

All of this was the fault of that stupid photo. Had he never seen it, had that photo not existed, he and Bonnie could've gone the rest of their lives blissfully unaware that anything was wrong with their relationship. After all, what evidence was there besides it?

But then again, THIS is probably what would happen in such an event. A child with a genetic disorder, which would translate to a lowered quality of life. And it would be all Nobutaro's fault.

There was no way around it. Either he had to settle for being just friends with Bonnie for life or the two of them needed to part ways.

Either way, at this time he was much too close. He needed to take a step back from her until he could get his own feelings under wraps.

* * *

**Also Sprach Zarathustra: IX: Heartless**

* * *

**Sunday, May 29, 1966**

"Dad missed Father Norquist today," Gordy noted.

"Well, he had to come in at the last minute because he got a work call," Stacey said. "That's just the way it is sometimes."

Bonnie knew straight away what that meant. It concerned their *ahem* business with Doug McCormack, the auto-asphyxiation killer, the night before. This time Tarokun really had finished the job himself.

Every time they made plans for him to escape his cell, somebody turned up dead in Wichita at the hands of a murderer. This year in particular, two copycat serial killers emerged out of nowhere. Both were now dead, but it remained to be seen whether more would appear.

All they needed was maybe two or three months' reprieve so that Nobutaro could focus solely on getting to America. Just two or three months without any more deaths. Was that too much to ask?

There was something else also. The past week he'd been giving her the cold shoulder, barely talking to her, emotionally distant. It was not like him at all. And she had to wonder:

"Is Tarokun mad at me for something?"

If so, what was it exactly that she did? Thinking back, it must've started at the post office. They opened the PO box and took out the Ka-Bar knife, and then examined the picture of her father with a Japanese woman. That would naturally yield anger towards her father for being a cheat and possible adulterer, but what did that have to do with Bonnie? What had she done wrong? How could she help what her father did years and years ago?

None of this made any sense.

And that insane request he made to her. That they be detached from each other, only communicating via directly intended thoughts. No gauging each other's emotional state, or sharing dreams, or anything like that.

What the h*ll was that about?

Hmm, she thought, what in the world? I don't use language like that. What's gotten into me today?

Sometimes she and Tarokun got into fights, and went hours, even a day or so, without speaking. But this was unprecedented. And it was stressing her out.

There was only one way to find out. She had to ask him in a forthright manner.

But maybe, just maybe, she was afraid of what his answer might be. Had he simply lost interest in her? Was he bored of her and wanted to leave her?

Was he really that kind of coldhearted person?

* * *

"Please, have a seat."

Chad sat facing police lieutenant Nataniel Vilar, of the Wichita PD.

...

"Are you going to tell me about it now?" Chad asked.

"You first. What happened today?"

"We found the body of a teenage boy. We've identified him as Douglas McCormack, a high school senior who attended an upper-class private school here in Wichita. He was found next to a vehicle."

"A vehicle?"

"Yes. You may have received a report of a stolen vehicle right outside of the school grounds."

The lieutenant thought about it a moment. "Was it Rockefeller Academy?"

"I believe so, yeah," Chad said. "We believe he stole the vehicle in a desperate bid to escape someone. But whoever it was caught up with him, slashed the tire to his car so that it had to stop within the boundaries of Broadway, and then that person killed him."

"And you said on the phone that his throat was slit?"

"Yes. I believe it may have been an army-issued weapon that did the deed."

There was a pause.

"Now it's your turn," Chad said. "You said you have something to tell me?"

Vilar reached under his desk and pulled out a file. He set it down on the table.

"This was from a couple of days ago," he said. "A man was murdered inside of his own apartment. There was a struggle. Some sharp implements were found on the floor, probably belonging to the victim himself. But the weapon used to slit his throat..."

"Was it military-grade?"

Vilar nodded. "We believe so, yes. That's what our forensics team concluded. That two such cases, utilizing more or less the same MO should occur in the same area in short succession..."

"So there's yet another serial killer in the area. Great."

"I'm gonna put a team on this," Vilar said, standing.

"Sir, with your permission..."

"Hmm?"

"With your permission, and that of my own department, I'd like to collaborate with the Wichita PD on this."

Vilar's eyebrows furrowed. "Why?"

"Sir, I can count with two hands the number of arrests I've made in the past fifteen years. I'm useless where I am right now. The more I think about it, the more it seems that our latest killer has nothing to do with Broadway. This is probably the only chance in my career to actually do something of productive value."

"...You want a transfer. I'm sorry, but we don't have any paid openings at the moment."

"I'm not asking for that kind of transfer, sir. Rather, like I said, a collaboration between two departments. I continue to bring in a salary from the Broadway PD, as officially I'd still be working for them. But they'd, *ahem* lend me out to Wichita. I would be happy, sir, to dedicate all of my time to the pursuit of this Stigmata copycat, and to the other yet-unresolved cases."

"You want to go after Stiggie himself," Vilar realized.

"Not at this time, no sir. If I have any luck with bringing down this copycat, and whoever else, then I was thinking that eventually I might be given access to those files. But for the time being my priorities lie in the present."

Vilar sat back in his chair. "I'll speak with your captain about this, and with my own superiors. That's all I can promise you."

"Understood."

"Do you really? As far as I'm concerned, Wichita and Broadway are worlds apart. Did you know that three years ago, one of our own was killed on duty?"

"I had not heard about that."

"If you hitch up with us, you'll be taking the chance that when you go out there, you might not be coming home."

"That was always part of the job description, sir. I am ready to take that risk."

"Do you have a family?" Vilar asked.

"I do. I have a wife, a daughter, and a son."

"And what do they think of this?"

Chad shrugged. "I've been a cop all these years no problem. This is maybe a little more dangerous of an assignment but otherwise I fail to see what difference it should make."

"That didn't answer the question."

"I'm not sure how to answer, then. I haven't told them of my plans yet. But I will. So are you still going to talk to my captain about this?"

"...Yeah. I will."

Chad stood and headed for the door out of the lieutenant's office.

* * *

**Friday, September 1, 1944**

**Somewhere in Eastern Europe**

_Walking past the men toiling to load supplies into trucks, Hauptmann (Captain) Kurt von Schroeder stepped into the tent where his new boss was waiting._

_His nostrils were immediately met with a familiar smell, and he was filled with envy and longing._

_Sturmbannfuhrer Istvan Szegedy was sitting in a foldable wooden chair, his legs crossed as though he was reclining very comfortably. Next to him was a small table meant to hold a meal or item for a single person._

_Von Schroeder stood erect with his feet planted firmly together, and shot his right hand into the air in front of him._

_"Heil Hitler!"_

_Instead of reciprocating Szegedy said, "You must be the new guy. Would you like some tea?"_

_Von Schroeder did, but more importantly it was imprudent to refuse the hospitality of one's superior. So he nodded. "Yes please."_

_"Do you want sugar and cream with that?"_

_"No sir. Just plain, if you don't mind."_

_Sure enough, Szegedy had a second porcelain teacup present. He poured some tea into it from the kettle and handed it to Von Schroeder._

_"Sir, if I may ask...how did you manage to get tea?"_

_"Call it a commanding officer's privilege. I have a lot more where this came from."_

_Von Schroeder took a sip._

_"Is this...jasmine?"_

_Szegedy shook his head. "No. Nothing that fancy. So...what did you f*ck up to end up here?"_

_"Excuse me?"_

_"I read your file. You were stationed in Guernsey until a couple of months ago. A comfy post, to put it mildly. And yet here you are now."_

_"...I flirted with the wife of a colonel at a ball in Munich," Von Schroeder admitted. "I didn't know who she was, but I didn't care either. I saw and I desired. Big mistake in hindsight."_

_"A person who would risk being sent off to war just for the sake of admiring a pretty face seems like an idiot to me. How do I know whether I can trust your judgment?"_

_"Sir, my record should speak for itself. I have proven myself before my comrades at arms time and time again. Please do not let this one unfortunate mistake sully your perception of me. I hope to serve honorably for the duration of my assignment here."_

_"Understood. Just making sure."_

_"Permission to speak freely, sir?"_

_"Granted."_

_"Your last name. You're not a German?"_

_"Is that a problem?"_

_"N-No, sir. I will respect the chain of command. But to be clear, you are a Hungarian?"_

_"I am half-German, on my mother's side. But considering that this unit is made up of Hungarian nationals, does that surprise you?"_

_"I just expected that a German would be put in command of a Waffen-SS unit."_

_"One is. I answer to the Obersturmbannfuhrer over me. He is full-blooded German, I can assure you. But the men were picked for their blood, not for their mother tongue. Many of them can only speak Hungarian. And that's where I come in."_

_"This unit was activated maybe a year ago. You went from private to Sturmbannfuhrer in that short time?"_

_Szegedy laughed. "Heavens, no! I held equivalent rank in the Hungarian army. The regent thought it expedient to send me off into German hands, on account of my political leanings. It doesn't matter to me, though. I figured out long ago that there is a new order on the continent, and my mother country stands to benefit from its alliance with the Germans. The fates of our two countries are tied, and both have a vested interest in keeping the Red army from pouring west. The way I see it, I'm still serving Hungarian interests with my present post."_

_Von Schroeder finished the last of his._

_"More tea?"_

_"No thank you."_

_"Very well then. Let's get you up to speed on the current situation. As I'm sure you've heard by now, the Romanians have betrayed us. We've received orders to ship out to the new front, and we're scheduled to leave within three hours. Find Eichmann and he'll give you a full report on the preparations thus far. You're to take charge. Can you handle this assignment?"_

_"I can sir."_

_"Dismissed."_

_Von Schroeder put down the teacup, did a fascist salute once more, and then turned to exit the tent._

_"Wait. Captain, there's one more thing you should know. __This is an Einsatzgruppen unit."_

_Einsatzgruppen, Von Schroeder repeated mentally. He'd heard the rumors. But that he was actually assigned to one such now. That meant-_

_"Can I trust you to faithfully execute your solemn responsibilities to the Volk and to the Reich, no matter how unsavory?"_

_"Sir. Yes sir. That will not be an issue."_

* * *

**Monday, May 30, 1966**

"What the heck was that...?"

This was the second highly unusual dream that he had in the past few days.

He didn't have the nerve to ask Bonnie about the "married life" dream, but the fact that she hadn't brought it up, and that she'd still been asleep when he woke up, suggested to him that it was exclusive to him.

In this dream he did not exist as himself, but rather he took on the perspective of the German officer in question. A version of himself who thought totally different thoughts and was unaware of his existence as Nobutaro.

Bonnie did not appear in that dream. Instead there was basically just one other person in it. That other person was probably a figment of Nobutaro's imagination. But if so, why did it seem so real?

If two unconscious minds collaborated to construct a joint dream, its overall complexity could increase. The evidence was there. But that would've meant that Bonnie comprised the role of his half-Hungarian superior.

He'd resolved not to share dreams with her anymore. That was, after all, one such area where they'd been "too close". But dreams were not a voluntary matter.

Bonnie was awake now. Did they both wake up because it was their normal time to wake up, or because the dream had concluded for both of them?

And so, he decided to ask.

"Hey, Bonnie."

_Yeah_?

"Was it just me? Or was it you too?"

_What are you talking about_?

"...Nothing. Good morning."

_Good morning_.

* * *

Without saying another word to each other Bonnie got dressed, ate breakfast, and brushed her teeth.

School was out. So as for what she was going to do today...

She went outside, trailed around to the back of the house, and got on the trampoline.

"Hey, Tarokun. Today's the day, right?"

_Huh_?

"You know what I mean. We put it off twice now. But there aren't any more serial killers left."

_Is that so? How about the Stigmata Killer_?

"...Are you freaking serious?! Are you really going to use a cold case from 8 years ago as an excuse not to do this?"

_No, you're right. I'm-I'm sorry_.

"That's all you have to say for yourself?"

_Geez, Bonnie, what else do you want me to say_?

"To start, how about an explanation? For the horrible way you've treated me this past week! You say you don't want us sharing our feelings anymore, and-

She stopped herself. "You know what, just forget it. Two can play this game."

She waited for him to respond.

Silence.

She lied down with her arms stretched out and looked up at the clouds.

And she blurted out:

"You're breaking my heart, Tarokun..."

He sighed, exasperated.

_I can't help that. It's who I am_.

She was confused.

_Bonnie, the boy who you've associated with your entire life...is actually a really terrible person_.

She shook her head. "That's not true."

_It is! Bonnie, just listen to me! I'm the kind of person who won't leave well enough alone. I want more whenever I should be satisfied. I will take a good thing and pervert it, by taking it beyond reasonable boundaries. I hurt you, d*mmit don't I know very well that I'm hurting you?! Because I ruin whatever I touch_.

Bonnie was surprised by the raw emotion that she could feel coming from him. He was on the verge of breaking down.

"Can you at least...tell me what it is?"

_No_.

She sat up. "Why can't you tell me?!"

_Because if you knew...the_ _truth_ (he hesitated because he didn't want to admit that he was hiding something big),_ you would hate me_.

She could feel her pulse racing.

"You're afraid that I'll...hate you?" she asked, incredulous. "Tarokun, nothing you do will make me hate you."

_Nothing_?

She shook her head. "I stood by your side the night before last. I watched you do it. You told me to look away, but I couldn't. I saw what you did. I could feel what you felt as you were doing it. That strange mixture of resolve to do the deed, to obtain justice for the dead, and deep-felt mental anguish. You are not like those people, and I'm so, so sorry if I ever suggested that you were."

How do I explain this to her, he thought.

And then it hit him. Something that he'd read about in a teen magazine (published by a church organization) on the church grounds.

_Bonnie, just imagine, for a moment. Let's say that I'd found a way, a long time ago, to switch bodies with you, while you were sleeping, without waking you up in the process. And let's say...that I used that opportunity, very frequently, to gratify my debased carnal impulses. With you. With your body. Without your knowledge, or consent_.

"Nothing of the sort exists!"

_Let's say that it did. Knowing that...would you hate me_?

She was stunned. A thousand different things were running through her mind. Mainly, she felt betrayed and horrified.

But then:

_Bonnie, you're right. No such way exists. I would never do that in a million years, but even if I wanted to, I couldn't. It wouldn't be possible for me to get away with something like that. The mere fact that you wake up every day in your own body is proof of that. If you were in my body, I could not force a switch to cover my tracks. You've tried forcing a switch before, and it doesn't work. Only the holder of my body determines whether a switch happens_.

He could feel her getting mad.

"A-Are you just trying to get a rise out of me?!" she protested, feeling hot.

_No. I'm just trying to get my point across. If you would hate me for that, in such an event, then I think I can say that you would hate me if you knew the truth_.

She had nothing to refute that with.

_We're at an impasse right now, Bonnie. Do you really want me to come to Wichita? Is that really what's for the best? Or is it better that I stay where I am? The answer is, I don't know. You don't know. Nobody does. But what I do know is that I shouldn't take action of such irreversible consequences if I'm not sure of myself_.

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Tuesday, May 31, 1966**

It didn't matter that Gordy didn't want to go back. Here he was.

The local YMCA center. A vile den of pederasts, cloaked under a veil of respectability.

Surrounded by naked people, Gordy felt wildly uncomfortable as he removed his shirt and his pants in the locker room. He then wrapped a large white towel around his lower body.

He put his things in his locker.

And then, he opened the door and stepped into the communal bath.

The air was filled with hot, rising steam, obscuring his vision in all directions.

"One, two, three, GO."

He could see three teenage boys tossing and catching what looked like a bar of soap to and fro.

"Aw man," the one guy who dropped it said.

"Alright, you know the rules. Turn around and drop it."

Gordy walked past them and sat down in the warm water.

A few seconds later he could hear grunting and moaning.

"So. Gordy..."

He then noticed that one of the instructors, the man named Tom, was also in the water.

Tom stood straight up, in the nude, and Gordy was immediately grossed out, looking away.

"How are you liking it so far, buddy?"

"I hate it!" Gordy blurted out, his eyes closed shut. "You guys are weirdos! What the heck is wrong with you all?!"

"Aww, don't be like that," Tom said.

He wrapped his towel around himself and walked closer to Gordy.

In response, Gordy stood up and turned to go.

Tom walked up to him and began to caress him, stroking his neck gently, breathing down his back.

Gordy raised his voice to protest.

"Shh, shh. Don't say a word. Just accept that this is happening."

To his horror, Gordy wasn't sure how he felt about this.

His feet were frozen in place. When he tried to move Tom told him not to, so he didn't.

And so Tom took the next thirty to forty seconds "checking him out" up close and personal.

And then suddenly just moved on.

* * *

Bonnie scraped the fat shavings into the trash can.

She was helping her mother prepare dinner, which tonight would be a dish called chicken pot pie (though her mother had stepped out for a couple of minutes to pick up Gordy).

In the living room, the TV was turned all the way up on a programming block dedicated to playing country/rock and roll hits (much of it recycled material from the old radio show "Louisiana Hayride").

Dinner was just about ready to put in the oven. Just a couple minutes remained. She began kneading the pastry filling with a rolling pin and placed it on the round, glass pieholder.

*slam*

She turned to see Gordy enter the house.

"What in the world...?"

Without saying a word Gordy rushed upstairs to his room.

Stacey entered.

"What's with him?" Bonnie asked.

Her mother shrugged. "He's been like this since he got in the car. I don't know why."

* * *

"Hey Bonnie, tell your brother it's time to eat."

"Okay."

She climbed the stairs.

I wonder whether he's still in a bad mood, she thought.

She stepped onto the narrow hallway upstairs and walked up to the first room on the left side.

She turned the knob and swung the door open.

She stepped inside.

Gordy, who'd been lying in bed with his face in a pillow, looked up at Bonnie.

They stared at each other awkwardly.

"...What?"

"I-It's time to eat," she said.

And she hurried out.

She felt a tightness in her chest. She didn't know why. But on the other end...

"Tarokun?"

_What was that_? he said, astounded and bewildered. _Those_-

"Eyes?" Bonnie finished.

_Y-Yeah. Bonnie...why do I feel like the crummiest person in the world_?

You're not the only one, she thought.

_Are you going to do it_?

Silence.

_Bonnie, if you're not going to do it, then let me...Please. Somebody has to do it_.

She felt that same compulsion: to run back in there and comfort Gordy, embracing him and holding him tenderly.

But she knew that it would've been unseemly, and afterwards she'd have a hard time explaining her actions.

And so, instead she just headed down the stairs.

And that was that.

Minutes later Bonnie was seated with her family at the table eating dinner, and then it hit her.

The opportunity that she'd missed.

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Wednesday, ****June 1, 1966**

Chad waited.

Nothing happened.

He opened the machine. And then he opened it a little more.

Sure enough, he could see the paper jam.

He let out a swear word under his breath. The Xerox machine didn't jam often, but it seemed like just about every time it happened it happened to him.

"Oh. Chad. Here you go."

The precinct captain, Chuck, handed him a letter.

"We'll miss having you around."

Did this mean he got what he'd requested?

Or rather-

Chad opened it in a hurry.

And he breathed a sigh of relief.

This was not a notice of termination but instead the transfer was going to proceed at the beginning of next week.

Gay was watching from the water cooler as Chuck handed a conspicuous envelope to his partner.

* * *

The traffic light on Maple Street had gone out. So what that meant was...

Chad blew his whistle and held up his little red sign.

Then he signaled to the people on the other side to go.

The repairman was scheduled to arrive in about ten minutes.

Gay looked around. For the moment there were no more cars.

"Alright. You mind telling me what that was about?"

"Hmm?"

"Earlier. The note. What was that? Early payday?"

Chad shook his head. "Remember that conversation we had the other day at Round Robin?"

"...Ah sh*t. You're really doing that? Now? What about the kid who turned up dead?"

"I don't think that had anything to do with Broadway. The place where I can do the most good is in Wichita. This? This is a dead-end job. I've known that much for years."

He sighed. "Well, my paycheck will still be coming from Broadway. Formally I'm just being borrowed by the Wichita PD."

"When do you start?"

"Monday. Say uh, don't tell Kevin."

"What? Why not?"

"I think it'd be best if he heard it from me."

"Huh."

Silence.

"You know, we oughta give you one last blowout bash 'fore you go."

"Come on..."

"Nah man, I'm serious. We'll stay up 'till the hall closes for the night, have a pool tournament. We'll each place a hundred bucks down and the winner takes all. Maybe...Sunday night?"

Chad shook his head. "I wouldn't wanna be hung over my first morning on the job. Saturday will do."

Gay blinked. "Though you've got church the next day?"

"Eh. Beer on Saturday night, and then communion wine Sunday morning. Though I guess we don't have to drink."

"Who are you and what've you done with Chad Cartwright?"

They laughed.

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Thursday, June 2, 1966**

It was unusual that Bonnie should still be in her pajamas at this time of day (almost 9:00 in the morning). Summer break allowed such a luxury, but it was only a "luxury" in that it was a thing that circumstance rarely permitted. That nighttime outfit which seemed comfortable in the later hours did in the morning seem stuffy and dirty.

She filled the pot half full of water and opened the pantry.

She took out some teabags and prepared them the way she'd seen her mother do many times. And then she turned the stove on, placing the pot on such.

She was home alone. Her mother had taken Gordy just a couple of minutes ago to the YMCA, but she'd also spend a good half-hour or so buying groceries.

Bonnie fixed her teacup.

_Since when did you drink tea_?

"I'm just trying something new."

Nobutaro took quick note of Bonnie's posture. It was unmistakeably the same as-

_No. Please, no. Bonnie, tell me you didn't share such a horrifying dream with me_.

Silence.

* * *

Those eyes.

Gordy's eyes.

He'd seen those eyes his entire life. But to him it was an irrelevant detail, until the evening before yesterday. Until he actually stopped and took another good look.

They were like the eyes of a fawn. To see those eyes, it made his heart race. An exhilarating feeling. A tenderness, that had a mild relaxing effect which in seconds counteracted the exhilaration. What was it?

Love.

Love for the fawn-eyed boy.

Or was it, rather...lust?

What was this? Was it a perspective unique to Nobutaro? He'd peered into Gordy's head, curious as to the cause for his distress.

It did not shock him quite as much as it should've. Because he'd already been inside Charlie Hudson's head, as well as that of two killers on separate occasions. But he definitely did not expect it.

Caressed and fondled by a grown man. Perhaps a young child might be comforted by his mother in a somewhat similar manner. But this was different. It was...what could it be compared to?

On television, a married couple between whom there existed deep bonds of affection, displayed through small but potent acts of physical intimacy. It was like that.

But that interpretation made no sense in this context. A man and a boy. An absurdity. Or, rather, an abomination. Nobutaro had read more than enough Scripture. He'd read of people who for their wanton and lawless fornication reaped for themselves their due portion of divine wrath. And it seemed such a terrifying thing at first. But as he grew a little older he'd realized that it was also a foreign thing.

And yet here it was. In Broadway. His half-brother had been touched inappropriately by a son of Sodom. It was not a forcible or violent act, and it was not taken nearly as far as it might've gone. Rather, Gordy had stood in place and let it happen.

Why? Why did Gordy let it happen? Was it because he was a good boy who obediently did what he was told? Or was it in part because...he enjoyed it?

Gordy didn't know. There was something distinctly humiliating about the experience to him, but he wasn't sure of himself. Perhaps there was something thrilling in the act, in receiving this kind of attention from another person. It was something he'd never experienced before.

Gordy too had read Scripture. He too had read of this strange category of offense and offender. But now it was real. Now it was present.

Now it was him. And he was filled with shame.

Understanding Gordy's feelings, Nobutaro decided against intervention. This crime was not bad enough to warrant death for the offender ("Tom"), but on the other hand getting him sent to jail for his crimes would draw unwanted scrutiny to Gordy, and to whether he was a participant, willing or unwilling, in a sexual act with a fellow male. The only option would be for Gordy to put his foot down and tell his parents he was quitting. If his misery was great enough he would, surely, even if it meant defying his father, a man who was scarce proud of his bookwormish son. Ideally this would be the last time that Gordy had to go up there. But who knew.

But in that moment, of lust for the fawn-eyed boy Gordy. It was a fleeting sensation, and in all likelihood he was mixing his own feelings with those he saw via telepathy. He knew that was probably the case, and in any case the fact that he'd had that thought for a brief moment did not seem particularly more vile a thing than being in love with his half-sister.

But his subconscious...it had other ideas.

Yesterday morning he'd woken up on the verge of crying, because the dream that he'd had was easily the worst in his entire life. It seemed to be a continuation of the "German and Hungarian" dream, in that it had those same two characters, set in the same time, with the same unusual vividness that usually marked a shared experience between him and Bonnie.

Szegedy and Von Schroeder, in Nobutaro's dream they'd received orders from the higher-ups to oversea the transfer of a Gypsy village of some 200 residents in Hungary (recently subject to a fascist coup) to a train station where they were to be shipped to a "labor camp" in Germany. The villagers had shown violent resistance to the police, for which Szegedy and his men were called in.

Inspecting the operation, the two men pulled into the village in an officer's car, and stopped next to the house of an old woman and her grandson, who'd barricaded themselves inside.

Kicking down the door, Szegedy and Von Schroeder had entered themselves.

And there they saw him: a young boy, maybe ten or eleven, with eyes of a fawn. Gazing upon the handsomeness of his youthful features, they both desired after him. And they...

Nobutaro had to shut his eyes and grit his teeth. He couldn't bear to think about it.

Where in his mind did even the idea of such an awful dream come to him? Deep down, was he really that bad a person?

* * *

"...What are you talking about?" Bonnie answered. "What dream?"

He took in a deep breath and exhaled. _Don't scare me like that_.

"Like what?"

_I-It's nothing. Forget I said it_.

There was a pause.

"Hey, you wanna finish the rest of this yourself?"

Nobutaro observed that the teacup was about half-full now.

_Ah, yes. I think I would like that, thank you_.

*vreeng*

He picked it up and finished the rest of it.

Then he put it in the sink and cleaned up after themselves.

"Alright," he said. "I'm done."

There was a pause.

"Bonnie? You gonna switch back with me now?"

_Tarokun, I've given some thought to what you said the other day_.

"Huh?"

_And you're wrong about me. There's nothing you could do that would make me hate you_.

"Where is this coming from?"

_I want to prove that to you, here and now_.

Nobutaro thought back on what he said then, and he realized where this was going.

"Heck. No."

_Do it now. We're here by ourselves, nobody's watching. Just you and me. Knock yourself out, to your heart's content. I won't judge. Just...when you're done, will you please just tell me the truth? That's all I ask_.

"B-Bonnie, come on now!" he protested, laughing out of nervousness. "Th-There's no way I'm doing something like this! Not when you're right there watching..."

_You want me to look away then_?

"What? No! That's not what I meant! I'm not doing this, so switch back with me now if you don't mind!"

_Tell me what it is. This secret of yours, the one thing you you supposedly can't tell me. I want the full truth, and I'm not switching back until you do_.

He was trapped. Like a rat in a cage. Bonnie was in control now, because he foolishly wanted to drink some tea. There was no way to avoid this conversation, except maybe-

_Oh, and don't lie. After you tell me, I'm going to check for myself whether you're telling the truth. You don't wanna be caught red-handed lying to me_.

He was pacing the house, trying to vent his panic into energy exhausted elsewhere, so that he wouldn't go crazy.

He ran up and down the stairs.

_I'm not letting up. If you don't tell me, then I'll just let you rot in my body forever. How do you like the sound of that_?

He'd lost control of the situation. This was the most helpless he'd felt since Leroy Babineaux. His hands were shaking.

He leaned against the living room wall and slid down to the ground, facing the television.

"Bonnie..."

_Are you crying_?

"Don't make me do this," he whispered. "Please. Don't make me tell you. Not that. Anything but that."

She did not expect him to respond this vehemently.

And so, she made a decision.

_Then I'll do it for you. We'll rip this off quick, like a band-aid_.

He was defeated. His hidden sins exposed to his only friend in the world.

Completely powerless, he just sat there, rocking himself, traumatized.

...

...

A minute passed.

Had she done it?

"Bonnie?"

_...Why didn't you tell me_?

He could feel it. On her end, she was starting to tear up and get emotional as well.

_You idiot, why didn't you tell me? Keeping something like this to yourself. We're fam_-

"We're HOPELESS!" Nobutaro burst out. "Bonnie, don't you see? I...I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. I wanted to make you my wife. I thought...we could have a family. Grow old together. But now-

He curled into a ball and rested his/her upper face on his/her knees, looking down.

Blushing. Profusely.

"I still love you," he continued. "I thought if I could distance myself emotionally, from you...that would cause me to stop feeling this way. And maybe then things could go back to normal. But I couldn't do it. I-

_Stop it, just stop_!

*vreeng*

* * *

She'd done it without warning. He was suddenly thrust back into his own body. Bonnie remained there, crying softly on the floor.

He looked on, ashamed of himself for the ruin that he'd caused.

He had to get away. He could never come back. He could never show his face to her again.

Was this what both of them wanted?

It didn't matter. A line was crossed, a line that destroyed bonds of kinship.

And so, he disconnected. With such force he did, yes. Like slamming a phone down, intent on hanging up for good.

He looked up.

He looked down.

He looked left and right.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

This was all that was left in his life now. These were the remaining resources available to him.

Bonnie was gone. Broadway, Kansas was gone. There was only this dungeon in Japan, and the people who were holding him captive.

* * *

After a little while she got up. And wiped her eyes.

"Tarokun?"

There was no response.

She smiled, feeling better. "Tarokun, everything's going to be alright, I think. What you're feeling is...I get it. You found out at the Post Office, when you saw that picture. But you've liked me since before then. Probably a long time before then...right?"

She continued:

"In that case, I don't think it's such an abnormal thing. People don't often get over such feelings so quickly. It takes time. And I get that...those feelings can never go anywhere. You get that too, I'm sure. But the mere fact that you feel, under these circumstances...it doesn't make you a bad person. Just the opposite, right? It means you want to do the right thing. I'm sorry if...I overreacted. It's just, like, a lot to take in at once, you know?"

No answer.

"Tarokun?"

Nothing.

And that was when she realized he wasn't there.

This wasn't entirely without precedent. There'd been times when he was skulking or mad at her, and so he ignored her. The other way around also applied plenty. Was that what this was?

Time. All they needed was time. This would all blow over. Maybe it'd even take a couple of days, but it would eventually blow over. It always did, after all.

Because Tarokun wasn't somebody who could simply live his life without her.

The front door opened.

"Oh. Bonnie. Can you help me unload the car?"

Stacey was holding bags of groceries.

Bonnie headed out to the car to bring in stuff.

And for the time being she set Tarokun off her mind, knowing that she'd still be here whenever he came around.

It wasn't like she was going anywhere, after all.

* * *

**Nine Years Before Present**

"On that day, my dear Fusae...I made what was probably the biggest mistake of my life."

Vermouth was intrigued. "You really just ditched her? Right then and there?"

"I did."

And the elderly half-Japanese man Nobutaro Cartwright started laughing.

This was enough to raise an eyebrow from Vermouth. Did this mean he quickly made up with Bonnie?

But then his laughter turned into something else. Pitched howls of sobbing.

She felt sorry for him, and put her hand on his shoulder, hoping that that might do something to help.

Perhaps it was her fault. She'd initiated this conversation, and in the process forced him to relive a past filled with heartache and loss.

He soon regained his composure. And he continued:

"And to think it all happened because of a misunderstanding. I was too afraid to check what she was feeling because she might've sensed me doing that. So I just assumed she was horrified and disgusted by my confession. And as time passed, well, at a certain point there was a steep cost sunken into absence. I'd been avoiding her long enough that I wouldn't be able to explain myself to her, if I were to suddenly re-initiate contact. What if she'd moved on from me? And, as much as I missed her, it was...easier. As long as I kept to myself, I couldn't be hurt again by an experience like that one."

He bowed his head, as in deep thought.

"Every day I had a fresh choice. And every day I chose to walk the lonely path. Soon, days turned to weeks. Weeks, in turn, became months. And months-

Became years.

There was a pause.

"I can't choose now to have lived those years differently," he said. "All of that time I could've spent with Bonnie. Had I known that her life was going to be cut short...I would've cherished every day, every minute. Instead I wasted two years. Two. Years. And now I can't take it back."

Vermouth looked around. The Reverend would be making another pass around sometime soon, and it was probably best if they left soon.

She stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"Anywhere, I guess. Aren't we done here?"

He shook his head. "My story isn't over yet."

He looked up at her. "That is what you wanted to hear, right? My story."

She sat back down.

"Leaving Bonnie required a few adjustments. In the days that followed I fell into the habit of being a creature of the day, and sleeping at night. In terms of local Japanese time. From my enclosed cell I was unable to see the stars, but that didn't stop me from looking up. I lied awake at night thinking. About how Bonnie was doing, mainly. Until I'd fall asleep."

"It was about three weeks after that day," he continued. "When I woke up, late one night. And it hit me, all at once. All of that time, I'd been numb to the magnitude of what I'd lost in leaving Bonnie behind. It hadn't really, er, clicked, if that's the right word. But now I understood. And in the dead of night all alone to my own thoughts, and to the echo of my own voice...I was able to grieve properly. Openly. Without restraint. I was fifteen years old when I had that experience, when I realized that that person, in a land of dreams far away from my cell, would no longer be with me in my life."

"...Why not then?"

"Huh?"

"Why didn't you go back to her then?" Vermouth pressed, starting to become emotionally invested herself in this old man's story. "It wouldn't have been too late by then, surely."

"Because I actually thought that it was. But it wasn't too late. No, rather..."

"It still isn't," he said, a burning passion in his eyes. "Everything that I've done since that night in 1968, the moment that her soul departed from this earth. All of it, I've done not simply to reverse the stream of time, but to stop time altogether. I can be both god and the devil...or neither. Maybe I'm just a p*ssed off old man, prattling on about things that can't be helped."

Vermouth laughed. "Maybe so. I guess in that respect you're not much different from an old woman like me, prattling on about my fading good looks."

"Speak for yourself. At least your problem can be fixed with a simple facial disguise, or perhaps with plastic surgery."

Silence.

"...You know, I've been dumped before," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. There was a boy once, and we promised that we'd meet one day. When we were both older. I guess he's long forgotten about that, or something. Perhaps he's already happily married. But my point is...that's not a good feeling at all. To be rejected by someone you care about that much. I wonder what it must've been like, to have been Bonnie those last two years of her life...But I guess there's no way for you to know now."

"Sure there is. She told me."

"Heeh?!"

* * *

("Be Thou My Vision" by Kalafina, feat. Yuki Kajiura, instrumentals in "Celtic" style)

_Bi thusa mo shuile a ri mhor na nduil_

_Lion thusa mo bheatha, mo cheadfai's mo stuaim_

_Bi thusa i m'aigne gach oiche's gach la_

_Im chodladh no im dhuiseacht lion me le do gra_

_Bi thusa mo threoru i mbriathar is i mbeart_

_Fan thusa go deo liom is coinnigh me ceart_

_Glac curam mar athair is eist le mo ghui_

_Is tabhair domhsa ait conai istigh i do chroi_

* * *

(Nobutaro and Bonnie's story is far from concluded. Be looking forward to part ten!)

**To Be Continued**


	10. Chapter 10

**An Ufotable Production**

_"I think you're asking the wrong question."_

_"H-Huh?" Bonnie responded, wiping her eyes once more._

_Mr. Yuri shook the glass in his hand and watched the liquid inside spin slightly. "It's not a question of whether Tarokun's left you for good. That's not it. Rather, it's a question of how long before he realizes."_

_"Realizes...?"_

_"Bonnie, have you ever thought about what exactly Tarokun is capable of? What his powers are?"_

_"Um, well, he can talk to me from Japan, and together we can read people's minds."_

_"Wrong. Tarokun doesn't need you for that. It's probably because of your shared blood, that he stumbled upon you on, well, let's call it the grid."_

_"Grid? I'm not sure I understand."_

_"I want you to imagine something. What does a telephone do?"_

_"It allows you to talk to people who are far away."_

_"It transmits data from Point A to Point B. What is data? It is a packet of information. An organization of matter that is useful to human needs and wants. That information here comes in the form of sonic waves. Organized as to constitute sounds not only audible to the human ear, but recognizable as language. Now of course, that information doesn't magically go from one telephone to another. Rather, the data travels very quickly along a network. Of miles and miles of wires held above the ground by tall poles, usually wooden. You can think of this as the highway along which the data travels."_

_"I already know this," Bonnie said, a little annoyed. "I worked in a telephone exchange, remember?"_

_"Yes. That you did. You should know, then, that in most places telephone exchanges have been replaced by automatic dial-up devices. With these, the data can, for all intents and purposes, go straight from one point to another without having to pass through middlemen. I'm saying this so as to make it clear that, for the purposes of this analogy, switchboard operators will not detract from my main point. As I was saying, at any given time there are so many people making calls to each other that the 'highway' is jam packed. Like a busy road. Not a congested road, mind you. But a busy road. The necessary telecommunications infrastructure, the telephones on the end of each line, and the data traveling to and fro...combine these elements and the term that could be used to describe it all is...a grid."_

_"Ah. Gotcha."_

_"How is that relevant to Tarokun, you may be wondering? Well, think about it this way. Imagine, say, that everyone has a telephone in their house. But nobody has a telephone with a dial on it. So they can't make use of that phone to call other people, right? This is how we think of ourselves. We have our own brains, which are not connected to anybody else's brain. We think we're each a standalone individual. But imagine that the infrastructure is there. Everyone's house is hooked up to the phone lines. The grid exists, it just isn't being used. Because there aren't no stinking dials. In theory, they could still receive a call, right? Let's say now that Tarokun is the only person whose phone has a dial. He can call anyone. Anyone with a phone. Or, analogies aside, he can connect with the mind of any living person. They can't do the same. That makes him uniquely special."_

_"Tarokun can connect with anybody besides me?" Bonnie summarized._

_"Yes. Now, repeat that. Anyone."_

_"Anyone."_

_"To be clear, that includes celebrities. World leaders. The President of the United States. The Premier of the Soviet Union. The Director of the CIA. Astronauts. Elvis Presley. Billy Graham. Walter Cronkite. Martin Luther King. Some random guy in Denmark. The entire world is at his fingertips. Now, what you've said is that he can read minds even if the other person is unaware of it. Right?"_

_"Right."_

_"So that's settled. He can know anything that somebody else on earth knows. And based on what you've told me about your shared history, this applies regardless of language barriers. Tarokun could be living it up right now. He can be listening in on the President's private conversations. Be made instantly privy to state secrets. Nuclear launch codes. 'Feeling in' as two people make love. In theory, at least, there is just about nothing that's off limits to him. The only limiting factor is what he wants, and his own sense of right and wrong. He enjoys an overlooking view of the entire human race. He towers above us, and there's no end to the possibilities."_

_He paused, and let Bonnie soak that in._

_And then finally she said:_

_"...I guess he never needed me, then."_

_"Wrong. Everything that I just described...is exactly why he'll be back."_

_She looked up at Mr. Yuri, puzzled by the contradictory thing he just said._

_"I can see you still don't get it," he said. "Bonnie, without you, Tarokun is a nomad. He can travel the entire world, see all the sights. But there's nowhere that he can call home. There is no consistency in his life. He will enjoy everything, and so he will have a deep connection to nothing. Because of that, he is a lost man. Maybe he doesn't realize that just yet. We all need things like that, things that we can count on to remain as we last left them. You're still quite young, so maybe you don't understand this, but...as you get older, you're going to start to feel something called nostalgia. To see things as they were when you were a child, it will bring you comfort. That sensation, I believe it's connected to the aforedescribed principle."_

_"Tarokun is going to feel nostalgic for me?"_

_"I think that's a kind of shallow way of putting it, but basically, yeah. It's only a matter of time. And, like you said, he didn't leave you because he got tired of you. Rather, it was because he can't bear to face you right now."_

_"But if that's the case, then how will that change?"_

_"Because time heals all wounds. One day he'll think back, remember you, long to see you again, and he'll hope that you'll have moved past that shocking truth."_

_"But I already have," Bonnie said. "I really don't care about that. I just want to see him again."_

_"But does he know that?"_

_She was silent._

_"If not, then we're just going to have to wait. Until that boy of ours comes back to us."_

The promise that had been spoken. She put stock in Mr. Yuri's experience and wisdom, and it was this that he'd staked in making that assurance to her. That Tarokun would one day come back to her.

That conversation had taken place more than two years ago. As of today, **September 9, 1968**, Mr. Yuri's prediction had not yet come to pass.

Bonnie was tired of waiting. For two long years she'd lived every day with a gaping hole in her life. The person most important to her had been completely absent. All he'd left behind were memories, sweet and bitter.

She'd gone to school, to church. Spent her days with family. Birthdays passed. Hers. Gordy's. Tarokun's.

She'd expected that maybe he'd pop up for her birthday. But three times now that expectation had failed to pan out. She herself had recently turned 17. The same age as him now, she knew.

All of this time, to the people around her she had to put on appearances of normalcy, but as she retreated to her room at night she'd stare up at the ceiling, feeling like she was out of energy.

If it hadn't been for that one thing that kept her going...what would've happened?

This state of affairs had gone on for much, much too long. There were even times now when she questioned history itself, and wondered if all this time she might've just been imagining the very existence of the person Nobutaro.

And yet, despite it all, for over two years now she'd patiently applied herself and kept careful watch in preparation for what was about to happen. Mr. Yuri had been her companion throughout this, him being almost as eager as she was to bring him back, though in truth he hardly knew the boy.

A new opportunity had presented itself now. Or rather, a gamble. Either she would have her childhood friend back or she would be murdered. But it was not a hard decision to make. Speculating on her own future, she envisioned spending the rest of her life without Tarokun.

And it felt incomplete. Like there would always be something missing. And it cast a shadow over every future moment. Marriage. Career. Children. All of it. It all seemed...unreal, like the inferior of two scenarios.

She didn't want to live like that.

And so here she was. At the Broadway Post Office. It'd been a good while since she'd been back here, but it wasn't like the building had changed any.

Having retrieved the key from her dad's car, she opened the locker and took the Ka-Bar knife out.

She felt it in her hand, the sheath still on. It felt light. Lighter than it had been the last time she held it.

She slammed the locker shut, concealed the knife on her person, and stepped out the front door.

* * *

**Also Sprach Zarathustra: X: Overlooking View**

* * *

**Tuesday, June 28, 1966**

The door swung open.

Nobutaro, sitting in a meditative stance, opened his eyes and looked up.

"...He's dead, isn't he?"

The man, Kenzo Masuyama, age 24, nodded. "Mr. Suzuki passed away at around 4:00 AM earlier today in his home, as confirmed by his private physician. Some time before he died, he said that he wanted you to have this."

He handed a small, brown, and rather thick diary to Nobutaro, who stood up, walked across the room to Masuyama, and accepted it graciously.

Then he sat back down.

There was a pause.

"So who's the new Boss?" he asked.

"That would be me," Masuyama said. "For the time being, anyways. You can call me Pisco. Think of this as a courtesy visit, to check out our Organization's most prized asset."

"Some asset I am. Like I've told your predecessor, I can't translate the brass plates."

"Can't, or wont?"

Oh crap, Nobutaro thought, realizing what Pisco was about to say.

"My predecessor was content to let you sit in here and spend most of your time doing nothing of value to us. That policy is now over. I will have the plates left here in your cell 24/7, along with a notepad and a pen. Feel free to write either in Japanese or in English, as we have people who are fluent in the latter. I expect you to work long hours. As long as it takes...until you're finished with the task at hand. I expect to see results soon. And one day, if that expectation of mine does not pan out, I will run out patience. You do. _Not_. Want that to happen. Am I understood?"

"...Yeah. I'll get right on it."

"Good."

He turned to go.

But Nobutaro had one more question:

"What guarantees do I have...that you won't just kill me after I've given you what you want?"

"Huuh? What kind of stupid question is that? We'll never know whenever we might be in need of your services again. Killing you would make no sense. We cannot simply...replace you, after all. As much as we might like to. So count your lucky stars, boy. Give us what we want, pledge your obedience to the Organization for life...and we'll let you leave this cell and never have to come back. You'll enjoy the freedoms of ordinary people, more or less. Isn't that something you want?"

"Mr. Suzuki promised me my freedom, no strings attached."

"Mr Suzuki no longer has a say in the matter," Pisco retorted. "You will be free, but you will still serve us, until the day you die. That's the deal. Take it or leave it. If you wanted better then perhaps you should've done as we asked while my predecessor was still alive."

And then he left.

Nobutaro flipped through the pages of Hajime Suzuki's book. And several pages in it it dawned on him:

"So this was what the Organization has always wanted from me."

* * *

At first, his motive was simply to survive, and to continually buy himself more time. He started out his "translation" by composing a fairly lengthy psalm to the monotheistic deity that Hajime Suzuki worshipped, "revealing" it slowly, line by line. But as months passed, he had ample time in his cell to think about the situation in depth.

What had Hajime Suzuki been looking for? It was...

A method that would cause the world to remember its divine obligations. A method prescribed on the brass plates.

The Organization kept in storage (stolen from the Japanese government) the skeletons of human beings who were able to incorporate foreign organic tissue from other humans into their own bodily systems. Given the complexity of this system, the so-called Altar Organ, and a distinct lack of fossil records of any transitional forms leading up to the development of such, Mr. Suzuki concluded long ago that the altar organ was created by God.

It was, in the aforementioned man's view, the will of God that a few people should exploit and terrorize the many. But why?

As Tarokun continued read the man's diary, the reason became clear: so that men would humbly accept a position of submissive obedience and tolerate suffering in this world, instead setting their eyes on the life hereafter.

As an Organization that sought the implementation of the long-forgotten divine will, they could do one of two things. First, find an alternative means of forcing modern people to "remember". Second, to bring back the age of the cannibalistic overlords.

Assuming that the latter was chosen, there were two options presented. First, to bring back fossils from the dead, to restore sinews, cells, muscles, vital organs, the brain, all of it. And in the process to cure whatever ailment caused death in the first place.

But that was...

Completely insane, right? Was such a thing even possible?

But Nobutaro considered the age he was born into. Where probes had landed on the moon, broadcast images from space. Where vaccines for previously unstoppable contagions had been developed. Where cancers could be chemically treated, often with success. Where the iron lung might significantly prolong the lives of people who would've simply dropped dead on the spot before.

The second option was to transplant viable Altar Organs into a living people, and to replicate these so that subsequent generations of ruling elites might have them as well (since it was understood in the West and by Nobutaro that Lamarckian genetics were pseudoscientific nonsense).

Either way, there was still another question posed: how could these people, having gained the power to steal the organs of other people via consumption, get away with such a thing?

The answer, of course, was that the governments of the world had to fall, in this event. But what did that mean? To build an army capable of taking on NATO, the Warsaw Pact, and the People's Republic of China all at once?

Of course not. That was silly. The quickest way for the Organization to fulfill their objective here would've been to find a way to hijack the world's nuclear arsenals. They would destroy the world, wait it out in a bunker somewhere, and then subject the survivors to the rule of a few ubermenschen.

To be clear, then: if Nobutaro "translated" the tablets and composed a so-called prophecy leading them down the former road, they would look into both things: figuring out how to raise the dead and how to hack nuclear silos/submarines. If he led them down the latter road, they'd look into hacking nukes and cloning dead tissue from surviving samples of the Altar Organ.

Nobutaro was confident all of this could be achieved, given enough time. History had shown that religious mandate and wartime necessity were both very powerful impetuses to scientific progress. During antiquity and the middle ages advancements in geometry and algebra were spurred by astrological practices and the perceived need to calculate holy days on the calendar. During the Second World War, there were weapons systems that, having been state-of-the-art one year, were, by three or so years later, rendered more or less obsolete. Competition in times of peace was not usually anywhere near that fierce. In addition, the war spurred the development of pressurized cabins, precision-guidance technology, advancements in computing, the jet engine, radar, and even primitive stealth (radar-evasion and sonar-evasion) technology. All of that happened in the span of a mere six years.

If the Organization could be compelled to devote their efforts as furiously as the Allies and Axis powers did, and focused their efforts almost solely into medicine, he knew they would make advancements much faster than the rest of the world. By the end of his natural lifespan he might see a world where death itself was eradicated.

It would be an enormous gift to the human race, if arrangements were made to leak this technology (of raising the dead) to the rest of the world. And if Nobutaro would just lie to the Organization and tell them more or less what they wanted to hear, he could make it happen.

The rewards were too great to pass up. By February 1967 Nobutaro had set his mind squarely on this course of action.

But to say that it came with its risks as well was an understatement. If they were to succeed in setting off a nuclear war...

Well, that would be on Nobutaro. He would be responsible for that, in that event.

So if he was to send them along this trajectory, he had to ensure that there was a foolproof way to destroy them once they'd finished development of the resurrection method, whatever said method looked like.

And so, he hatched a plan. An extremely elaborate plan.

Nobutaro's plan.

It went something like this: using his powers he would make contact with some people. Powerful people, in positions of authority. People who could help and who were willing to help. He knew that he had the means, and that somebody would believe him if he projected his own thoughts inside of their head.

These people would get together and start a cooperative effort, a small band to counter the Men in Black. As for their names...

White Organization. That sounded good to him. A White Organization, to counter the Black Organization. The Men in White.

The top leadership of this group would be privy to his plan. Their job, in effect, would be to assist him in manipulating the Men in Black. And, ultimately, to hamper their abilities to unleash armageddon.

The Men in Black, hopefully unaware of all this, would at the right time gather together into a bunker, in order to "wait out" the apocalypse.

He would arrange for somebody to smuggle a nuclear bomb, or some other sufficiently powerful explosive, inside the bunker. Or perhaps a potent gas or biological weapon. Whatever it was, it would kill everyone inside. With one fell swoop the Organization would be no more.

He was aware, however, that there would always been limitations in the ability of outsiders to infiltrate the Organization. At some point he would need the help of people deeply imbedded within their ranks. In all likelihood the only way such a person could rise to that position in the first place was if they had genuinely believed in it all themselves, for a time at least.

But how would they be convinced to turn on their former associates?

The answer was: that his "prophecy" be worded in such a way that it would carry the possibility of a second interpretation, overlooked by the Council and the Boss. He would need somebody, a useful idiot, a terribly deluded person, to believe in that second interpretation. The first interpretation, by that time, would be sufficiently "institutionalized" that the top leadership would be too close-minded to accept the second interpretation even if it was ultimately amenable to the Organization's highest aims.

The prophecy would warn against heretics from within, and so with a little prodding the two groups could be manipulated into literally destroying each other, leaving no survivors.

In addition, the prophecy would warn of certain people who posed a danger to the Organization's plans. The wording would suggest that once the Men in Black eliminated these people as a threat, there would be nothing else that could stop them, granting them the confidence to proceed, unaware of the lethal trap placed for them. He would find somebody to play the roles of these people. Those people would be scapegoats led to the slaughter, but what was at stake for the world was important enough that he felt this to be a necessary sacrifice. And ideally, they'd be people who understood the implications of their actions and were willing to lay down their lives.

Finally, he knew that all of this would amount to nothing if the Organization didn't believe him in the first place. Therefore it was necessary to "predict" some world events. The Men in White would work from the shadows to ensure it all happened the way he predicted, though he would also word it vaguely enough to grant himself some wiggle room.

By May 1967, his plan was completely formulated in his mind, though he understood that as time went on unexpected turns of events would happen, for which he might have to "wing it" every now and then and steer things back on track.

By July 1967, he'd written the last verse of his "prophecy" (or, rather, the translation of a prophecy supposedly penned nearly 4,800 years ago). And then, he sent word to the Boss and the Council that he was finished with the translation work.

* * *

**Saturday, July 15, 1967**

"...It's time."

Nobutaro stood gaping at Gin (same as the man he first met as a young child in 1955), who was situated with one foot inside the cell and one foot outside. Behind him the light of day shone into the room.

Gin extended his hand.

Instead of accepting it, Nobutaro stepped past him.

Outside.

...

...

It should've been a magical moment for him. This was literally the first time in over 11 years that he'd left his cell. In addition, there was a good chance that he'd never have to return there. This marked the start of a new chapter of his life.

And yet...

It felt mundane.

Nobutaro walked across the dusty ground and followed Gin to a convertible (that is, a car without a roof). A foreign-import, in which the driver's seat was on the left side. A metal exterior with a brilliant red finish. This was a luxury car, more or less. Not fabulously expensive, but more than what a person would normally pay for a set of wheels.

It was a long car. Nobutaro began to walk around it when-

"You wanna drive?"

Nobutaro was stunned. "For real?"

"Yeah. Do you know how?"

The sixteen year-old, no longer a mere "boy", nodded. "I think so."

"Alright then. There's one thing you should know."

Gin tossed the keys to him.

"You probably learned by observing the way people drive in America. But here in Japan we drive on the left side of the road."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

"You better. Because if you trash my new car I'll kill you."

Not 100 percent sure whether Gin was only kidding, Nobutaro gulped and walked over, opening the door and stepping into the driver's side.

Gin got in, and:

Nobutaro turned the key in the ignition.

It roared to life.

He backed out and pulled onto the one road out of here.

* * *

"The speed limit is 40," Gin said.

"I know," Nobutaro said, letting off on the accelerator.

The car cruised past a wooden fence overlooking a field of sweet potatoes.

The sun was still high in the sky. The clouds were beautiful. The sky was blue. The wind felt good. In short, Nobutaro was starting to appreciate that which he was being allowed to do today.

"...Okay. I'll just come out and ask. Why?"

"Why we're letting you go? Because we were ordered to do so, in Mr. Suzuki's last will and testament. Plus, it was the practical decision."

"Practical?"

"The line of reasoning goes something like this," Gin explained. "You can switch bodies with anyone, right? And the girl Bonnie, when she switched with you for the first time, she was completely unaware of how to find her way back. The same would go with somebody who you randomly decided to switch with. Let's say, then, that you decided to escape, in such a way that we'd never be able to find you. All you'd have to do would be to inflict a life-threatening injury upon yourself, and then switch with someone. Before they could even figure out how they got there, they would succumb to such and die. There would be absolutely no way for us to tell which of the several billion people on earth you switched with. If this happened, we would lose you as an asset for good."

"So to prevent this, you're letting me enjoy some basic freedom, in exchange for my continued loyalty," Nobutaro finished.

"Yeah."

"There's one flaw in your reasoning," Nobutaro said. "I would never do that to an innocent person."

"Okay. I'll give you that. But what about a guilty person? A murderer or rapist? Or any member of this Organization?"

Nobutaro was silent.

"I'm going to tell you exactly what happens next," Gin said. "I presume you already know where we are right now. So...here's what's gonna happen. We're going to drive to Nara City. If you're at a loss for directions, I can tell you what roads to turn onto, or you can just take that info from my head. Once there, you're going to check in to your place. We've paid down your rent until November 12. That's a little less than 4 months."

"So what you're saying is..."

"If you don't wanna become homeless in mid-November, I strongly suggest you look for a job. You're sixteen now, if I understand correctly. You're old enough."

"Yeah. Me and Bonnie, we had a job before. Still though, my ability to understand high-speed Japanese conversations in chaotic environments will be somewhat impaired."

"You'll just have to get used to that. Let's see...I don't think you'd be very good at physical labor, for obvious reasons. And you never went to school either..."

"That's not exactly true. I sat in classes with Bonnie, listened in, and often helped her with homework."

"I see. Well, that's what you should go for then. Some kind of office job, if you can."

"Understood."

"Oh, and there's one more thing."

"Huh?"

"Before we stop at your new home. There's something you probably don't realize. You smell like rat p*ss."

Nobutaro chortled. "I'm sure I do. I haven't taken a bath in, well, ever."

"I hate to say this but your flat doesn't have a bath."

"Say what?"

"Luckily for you, there's a public bath near where you'll be living. I checked it out myself. You can get some pretty good service there for an affordable price. I recommend we stop by today."

"Okay..."

"Also, there's the way you present yourself."

"Hey, it's not my fault I've been wearing the same shirt and pants for a year now. It's not like I got anything else to put on."

"I brought a change of clothes for you. After you bathe. A shirt, pants, underwear, socks, and..."

Gin looked down at Nobutaro's bare feet on the brake and accelerator.

"Shoes," he finished. "All brand new."

"Great. Should last me another year."

"...You don't realize, do you?"

"Huh? Realize what?"

"Kid, you're a free man now. Get a job, pay rent, and with the money that you've got left over...you can spend it literally however you want. You've got a washing machine in your apartment, and several changes of clothes waiting for you. A toothbrush. Several things of toothpaste. A working bathroom sink. A kitchen sink. A working stove and oven. A living room couch, big enough for one person to snuggle in. A TV set, albeit not a very nice one, and it's in black and white. You've got a full-sized bed, for which you can clean the sheets regularly. In short...you've got what a normal person has."

"...I know," Nobutaro said, a bare whisper.

Gin observed that Nobutaro was choking up and trying not to cry.

"T-Thank you."

"...It wasn't me," Gin said, looking away. "The Organization paid for all of this. The least we could do, after...well, you know."

**Ten minutes later**

"...Say, just for example, if I wanted to take a trip..."

"Hmm?" Gin responded.

"To another country."

"To visit Bonnie in America, you mean?"

Nobutaro hesitated.

"Again, you can do whatever you want, so long as we always have a way of contacting you," Gin said. "It's your life. Live it however you want. That's none of our business."

He sighed.

"I have to say this though," Gin continued, a hint of reluctance in his voice. "Don't take this as coming from me. I'm just the messenger, but...if you should ever try to run..."

"You people know where Bonnie lives," Nobutaro finished. "And you have the means to go after her."

Gin nodded. "I think we can both agree on one thing. Neither one of us want her to die. I've never met her, nor have any feelings of attachment to her as a result, but she's a civilian, far removed from our dealings. I always hate to see innocent people caught in the crossfire. And to you, of course, I'm sure she means a great deal more."

No answer.

"Do you still talk to her?"

"No."

Gin raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"...It's personal. I'd rather not talk about it. Suffice to say, me and her, we haven't spoken in over a year now."

Why am I talking to him about this? Nobutaro wondered.

Gin had been the person who found him for the Organization in the first place, depriving him of a somewhat normal life in the temple. He was aware, however, that the man had just been following orders. Remembering the events of that time, in hindsight, in seemed to him that...

Gin had felt sorry for him at the time?

He slowed the car. Keeping one cautious eye on the road, he peered into Gin's mind right then and there.

As it turned out, Gin had purchased the several bottles of toothpaste, as in contrast to just one as ordered, and several changes of clothes as in contrast to just one as ordered. These additional items Gin had bought with his own money. Also, the four month's rent was supposed to have been just three. But Gin paid down the extra month. In addition, he'd purchased several other goodies for Nobutaro. In the process the man'd blown through almost a third of his savings.

Withdrawing, he focused back on the road now.

"Hey, why're you going so slow?" Gin demanded. "Is something wrong?"

"N-Nothing. Sorry."

He sped up.

"I have one more question," Nobutaro said. "As for the basic necessities supplied to me. What about transportation?"

"We got you a bicycle," Gin said.

"...Oh."

"What? You were expecting a corvette? All of this is on the Organization's budget. We didn't want to splurge too much."

"No, it's fine."

He smiled. "Another bicycle, huh..."

"We are aware, of course, that your legs aren't the strongest from, well, you know. More than a decade of near-total inactivity. But we're confident you'll gain weight and muscle mass with time, and with a normal person's diet. You're a young man, after all. It shouldn't take you too long. In the meantime, if riding a bicycle is too much work you can walk. It might take you a little longer to get to where you're going, but..."

"I'll be fine," Nobutaro said. "But I appreciate the concern. Will somebody will keeping track of my every movement?"

"You'll receive a phone call. At 7:00 sharp in the evening. Every evening. We'll expect you to report in without fail."

"Giving me only 24 hours' head start if I try to run," Nobutaro finished. "Certainly cheaper than having a guy follow me 24/7."

"These kinds of procedures will persist your entire life," Gin said. "But I'm confident that over the years advances in technology will render this less of an inconvenience. Of course, if you ever switch addresses we will require that you immediately notify us of such."

They passed a sign.

"Alright, I'm going to need you to turn into that road coming up..."

* * *

A safety razor in hand, he checked out his appearance in the bathroom mirror.

Nobutaro was clean, dressed nice, his teeth brushed for the first time ever. He'd applied antiperspirant to his underarms.

Now he was focusing on the removal of his chin, neck, cheek, and lip hair. By now it'd become quite thick, almost a beard. But he knew it was best to be clean-shaven in order to snag a job. His appearance was nothing impressive. He was a bony youth, the product of a lifetime thus far defined by undernourishment.

The pantry was stocked with enough food for about four weeks (for one person). If he went scouring the city for work tomorrow, and then started the day after, he'd receive his first paycheck before the food ran out, assuming that he was to be paid bimonthly. With that in mind, there was no particular rush. He could just go out walking around the city tonight with his own two legs, feel the fresh nighttime air on his own skin, and observe the local nightlife in Nara. It wasn't anywhere near as large a city as Tokyo, but he was sure there had to be something of interest. He didn't have money to blow (though he was given enough to take an additional four baths, one per week), but for now he would enjoy just watching and looking around.

"I have the rest of my life ahead of me," he said to himself in the mirror. "The rest of my life."

While he had tied himself down to the fulfillment of his "prophecy" and underlying master plan, he knew that with his psychic powers he could accomplish much of that regardless of where his physical body was. He could handle that and live his life simultaneously.

But what was there to do? His first priority, of course, was to achieve sustainable living. He had to secure an income greater than the sum of what he was spending, so that he could avoid becoming homeless over the long term.

Once that condition was met, any future change in his condition would require savings. That'd mean the threshold that he needed to meet was not only mere sustainability but also a running surplus. Once he had money saved up, he could decide what he wanted to do with his life.

In other words: work now, dream later.

At this time the Japanese economy was well behind that of the United States but it was also in the middle of a long-running economic boom. Nobutaro knew he shouldn't have had much trouble finding a job somewhere. He was a single guy, living in a small, mediocre apartment. He figured 50-60 hours a week should do him alright pretty much no matter what kind of work it was.

* * *

**Sunday, December 24, 1967**

The radio was playing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" by Gene Autry in the background. The now-famous claymation Christmas special with that title was set to play on TV in a couple of hours.

Stacey, Bonnie, and Gordy set the table.

"...Is dad gonna be home tonight?" Gordy asked.

Stacey sighed, exasperated. "Why do you even ask that? The answer's always going to be 'I don't know'. You know that by now, surely!"

Calming down, she added: "I'm sorry."

"T-That's alright," Gordy said.

* * *

His colleagues had to admit, Chad was pretty good at his job. His dedication was something else. Like a fire was lit inside his soul, and he only lived to do his job.

Conversely, his home life suffered dramatically. When he was home he was cold and uninterested, only thinking about work. He barely interacted at all with his wife and kids. As of this time, Chad and Stacey hadn't had sex in roughly eight months.

Last year Chad had actually missed Christmas. He'd spent the day at work examining crime scene photos, forensic evidence, and witness reports from a kidnapping of a child in Wichita. He managed to solve the case and find the kid, about three days later. But to Stacey this was of little consolation.

He didn't simply work from a desk but was also sent out onto the field. This he'd done in Broadway as well, but the actual risks posed by fieldwork in Broadway were quite low. In Wichita, on the other hand, he was routinely sent into bad neighborhoods, to handle domestic disturbance calls, reports of gunfire, parolees who violated their terms, and even a heroin bust one time.

In fact, back in November of last year (1966), something happened that he didn't tell his wife about: he shot a guy. A man with a gun was leaning out the window of his home in a second story apartment was pointing a rifle at his partner on the field, and so Chad shot him in the head three times. They'd come to the apartment complex to arrest a man for whom the police had obtained a warrant; as it turned out, the man who tried to kill Chad's partner and was subsequently killed was not the man for whom the warrant had been issued. It was an unrelated person who apparently was just really paranoid about cops, and was possibly not quite right in the head.

Chad wiped the blood off himself at the station, went home late that night, and then headed straight to bed without saying one word to Stacey. Understanding that there was probably no alternative to the call he made in that split second, he tried to just forget about it and move on with his life.

In his years at the Broadway police, Chad tried to avoid drinking alone. Going to the bar/billiard hall was for him, first and foremost, a time for him to kick back and relax with friends. But as a cop in Wichita, Chad fell into the habit of going to the bar all by himself, staring at the TV screen, getting more wasted than he would've if he was with Gay and Kevin, and then driving home.

In the first few months of his new job he actually did a pretty good job of keeping in touch with Gay and Kevin. They still hung out a good bit...until November. After that, after shooting that random guy with a gun, there was nothing left for him but to throw himself into his work and drink like a sailor whenever he was off-duty. He often came home at night staggering, with booze on his breath. He was never violent to his family, nor shouted at them, (if anything, he hated loud noises when drunk), but they'd come to learn that it was best not to try and interact with him during such moments. Then again, things weren't much better when he was sober at home.

The first time he came home like that, Stacey screamed at him because in the state that he was in it was a borderline miracle that he made it home safely in the first place. He shrugged her off, and Bonnie was sure she even heard him swear at her. Afterwards, realizing there was nothing she could do to dissuade him she just locked the bedroom door when he came home like that, relegating him to the living room couch on such nights.

Granted, he was always sober for Sunday morning. He drove the family to church, and then back, and sat through the service. Bonnie came to look forward to Sunday mornings, as they were a short reprieve, a brief return to what used to be the normal everyday state of affairs for the Cartwright household.

What they'd all noticed, however, was that sometime around December 1966 Chad stopped taking communion altogether. The Apostle Paul in the New Testament had warned strongly against taking communion "in an unworthy manner". So it was appropriate, then. But it wasn't long before the other people at church noticed as well.

Rumors spread in no time. Stacey would learn the full extent of just how much middle-aged church ladies loved to gossip. And what was worse, she asked Rev. Bauer to deal with them, but he refused. Instead, he asked Stacey to invite Chad to undergo confession. That conversation would've been so awkward that Stacey just didn't relay the message to her husband afterwards.

Everything was starting to disintegrate at the seems. A family and household. And all because Chad just had to take the job.

* * *

They were all left twiddling their thumbs, determined to wait another twenty-five minutes before starting dinner without Chad.

And then:

*knock knock*

Stacey practically ran to the front door.

"SURPRISE!"

It was Gay and Kevin.

Behind them they were dragging a fairly sizable Christmas tree.

Gordy helped them take it inside and set it standing upright in the living room.

Stacey, evidently very pleased, asked: "Where'd you get this?"

"There was a place outside of town selling these," Kevin said, wiping the sweat off his brow. "Freshly chopped. We just needed to load it into the car."

Gay looked around the room, and at the three household members present. "Chad's not here, huh?"

Stacey shook her head.

"This, um, this happened last year, right?"

"Y-Yeah..."

Gay and Kevin looked at each other.

"Well that just ain't right," Gay said. "A man should be there for his family on Christmas eve."

Kevin turned to Stacey. "Is he up at the station right now?"

"Or at the bar," Stacey said with a shrug. "I don't keep track of this."

"Do you know which bar?" Gay asked.

"No. It's not the Round Robin. I know that. He's told me the name of the place before, but I don't remember what it was called."

"Is he gonna be coming home tonight?" Kevin asked.

"Eventually, yeah. He always does."

"...Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Kevin said to Gay.

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Monday, December 25, 1967**

Chad woke up and sat up on the couch, his head throbbing.

He looked down.

He was in his underwear.

He looked around, and realized he was in his own house. He hadn't drunkenly had an affair last night, and Stacey certainly wouldn't have anything to do with him while he was wasted, so as for how he ended up in his underwear...

Shrugging, he stood up and headed to the master bedroom.

Stacey was not in the room as he changed into his work clothes.

He stepped into the kitchen and reached for the key hanger on the wall.

He blinked.

Where were his car keys?

"Stacey?"

No answer.

He went up stairs. The kids weren't there.

He went downstairs. And looked out the window.

"Well I'll be," he muttered, astounded.

It hadn't snowed at all in Broadway this December. Until today.

Today...

Then he realized today was December the 25th. Christmas Day.

He looked in the living room and saw a Christmas tree.

"Did I do that?" he said, puzzled. He tried to think back but couldn't recall having gotten a tree this year.

He put a coat on and stepped outside.

The family was in the front yard, building a snowman and having a snowball fight.

But there were five people present. The other two were...

"...Gay? Kevin?"

They all turned and looked at him.

"Merry Christmas, old buddy!" Gay announced, throwing his arms in the air.

"Huh. Merry Christmas back at you all, I guess. Um, Stacey, have you seen my keys?"

Kevin shook his head. "No way. You're not working on Christmas."

"Y-Yeah, I'm pretty sure I told Mr. Vilar I'd be working today."

"Nope, we called your captain," Gay said. "And told him, 'Chad's going to spend Christmas with his family and if you don't like that you can suck it.' And he was just like 'Okay' and that was that."

Kevin nudged him on the shoulder. "We didn't say it like that."

"A little hyperbole never hurt no one," Gay said, chuckling.

Chad paused to process what he just heard.

"So let me get this straight," he said. "You two knuckleheads called my boss, told him off, and said I wouldn't be working today. Why?"

There was an awkward pause.

"We-we just told you why," Gay said. "It's Christmas. You should be spending the day with your wife and kids."

Chad sighed.

They all winced, expecting him to get mad. But instead:

"Well, I guess there's nothing I can do about it now," he said in resignation. "Stacey, you're fixing a nice meal for later?"

She nodded. "It'll be ready for lunch."

She turned to Gay and Kevin. "Do you two want to stay for lunch? I made plenty."

"Um, well, if you're asking, then I certainly won't say no," Gay said with a chuckle.

* * *

As they finished their plates:

"The grated yams were delicious," Gay said.

"Do you, uh, need us to help clean up?" Kevin asked.

Chad stood up abruptly.

"Whatever," he said. "I heard they're having a half-off deal at the pub today. Don't wait up, it'll be late."

Before anyone could say anything he headed out the door.

They all looked around the room and stared awkwardly at each other.

Finally, Bonnie stood up without saying a word...

And headed outside also.

* * *

"Hey."

Chad paused.

And turned around.

"Oh. Bonnie. Did your mother send you after me? Tell her-"

Instead, Bonnie angrily grabbed his shirt collar.

"W-What the h*ll?!" he protested.

"That woman," Bonnie began. "She does her job, doesn't matter if it's night and day. She does it right."

She breathed in deeply, trying to calm down.

"I thought, that at least for Christmas, for this one day of the year, you'd..."

Chad made her let go.

"Yeah, so what?" he retorted. "I ain't no bum. You all know that. I work long hours. Bring home the bacon. That hasn't changed. If anything, I work harder, longer hours now. What more do you want?"

"To be a husband and a father!" she burst out. "That's what we've always wanted from you! Always needed from you..."

She looked away. "But then again, you've never been faithful to mom, have you?"

Chad swallowed. "What did you say?"

"What was her name...? Oh, that's right. Naoko. Am I mistaken?"

"You peeked into my PO Box without permission," Chad realized.

"You knew perfectly well, when you boarded the ship back to America, you knew she was pregnant. With your kid."

Chad was starting to freak out now. He tried to counter with something, stuttering unintelligibly.

"N-No, I uh-ah-no I, you..."

"I'm sure you're asking, 'How did you know', right? Well...as it so happens, I've met him. The child that she gave birth to...before dying. My half-brother."

"...That's not possible," Chad said.

"I know, right? It shouldn't be possible. Do you want to know his name?"

"Huh?"

"His name," Bonnie repeated.

"N-No, I'm not particularly interested in kn-

"Nobutaro. But I prefer to call him Tarokun."

There was a pause.

"I'm sure you've heard his nickname thrown around," Bonnie said. "Truth is, I've been in touch with him for a long, long time. But you know that. You also know that last year he disappeared on me, and he hasn't written me back since. I honestly don't know what has become of him since that day, June the 2nd, 1966."

Chad tried once more to respond with something. But he was tongue-tied.

"Does that even concern you at all?" Bonnie asked. "For all you know, your son in Japan might've died or something. How does that make you feel? Aren't you even the slightest bit worried? If not, then...how can me and Gordy trust that you actually care about us?"

Desperate, he grabbed her shoulders. "Don't you f*cking dare bring Gordy into this!"

She looked away again. "Yeah. At the moment he knows nothing. And I'd rather that it stay that way. He still looks up to you, in spite of everything."

Chad fell to his knees.

He was still clinging to Bonnie's shoulders, and-

He was crying now.

"What do I have to do?" he pleaded. "Tell me!"

"You mean so that I won't tell anyone."

"Y-Yeah..."

"Get up. Go inside. Be a man and go see your wife. Tend to her needs, tell her what she needs to hear, do for her what needs to be done. When you're finished, go see Gordy. Spend some time with him. Maybe play catch, or listen to him talk about comics...or just let him cry on your shoulder. If he does that, don't ask why. Just accept it. He needs a father, now more than ever. You're a lost cause, I think. You are probably beyond the possibility of redemption. But you can at least use this one day to do the right thing."

Chad thought carefully about what he'd just been told, a look of awe on his face.

"Will you do that...Chad?"

He wasn't sure how to respond to that either, that his daughter had called him by his first name instead of as "dad".

She stepped back and headed inside.

He looked up at her as she departed.

Her voice, her personality...Did he even know his daughter at all? She seemed cold. Way beyond her years. And...

Boyish?

There was no mistaking it. The way she spoke-

It was like speaking to a man in a woman's body.

* * *

**Sunday, December 31, 1967**

*knock knock*

Gordy sat up and answered the door.

Bonnie entered without a word and plopped down on the floor, her weight resting against her arms behind her.

Gordy sat on his bed.

He looked out the window, at the nighttime sky.

"Tomorrow it'll be 1968, huh..." Bonnie said.

"You gonna stay up till midnight?" Gordy asked.

Bonnie nodded. "I want to spend my last moments in 1967 with somebody."

"Yeah. Me too."

"...What a terrible year it's been, though. I think we can both say that with confidence."

Gordy was silent.

"Did Tom send you another gift?" she asked.

He blushed. "Why are you asking me that?"

"Hey, I'm not mom. I'm not dad. You can tell me. I won't think any less of you."

"...Yeah," he admitted. "It's sitting in the closet now. He wants me to wear it next time I'm at his house."

"You know, if you just told somebody-"

She stopped and noticed his facial expression. He was starting to take up a defensive glare.

She shook her head. "Sorry, I guess it's too late for that now. But if you said something from the beginning..."

"I did," Gordy said. "But no one took me seriously."

"And now you're someone's b*tch," she finished.

He looked down, pained in his soul.

"You know I don't like that word," he said.

There was a moment of silence before Gordy blurted out:

"It must be easier for women."

"Huh?"

"If they're stuck in a situation like that, where they have to...do things for an abusive boyfriend or husband, nobody thinks less of them. No, rather, they earn the sympathy of their peers, because they're rightly thought of as victims. But somebody like me, a guy in that same boat..."

Uncharacteristically, he looked Bonnie straight in the eye.

"Bonnie, who am I?" he asked, dead serious. "Am I a man? Or a f*gg*t?"

"Hey, don't call yourself that!" Bonnie said. "You are not a fa-

"Why not, right?! That's what dad would say, if he found out!"

"Shh, not so loud," she hushed. "You want them to wake up?"

"Sorry."

Gordy looked away again.

Maybe it's a good sign, he thought. That I was able to maintain eye contact with someone for that long. Then again, it's only Bonnie...

"If only there was a girl somewhere," he said. "Me and her. I would be her boyfriend. And that'd make me, I don't know, normal perhaps."

He sighed. "But then again, what if she found out the truth? Would she want to be with someone like me? Would any woman? Answer me, Bonnie!"

Bonnie looked down. "I don't know. I couldn't possibly answer a question like that."

She looked up again. "B-But I'm sure somewhere, there's some lucky girl who-

"Save it. I don't need your platitudes. That's not where I meant to go with this."

"Huh?"

"Take a look at this."

He got up, reached under the bed, and pulled out some newspaper/magazine clippings.

She went through them really quick. "This is..."

"Yeah," Gordy said. "There's a surgeon in Dallas. He does those kinds of operations, sometimes free of charge."

"Y-You can't be serious!"

"No? What's left for me, then? As a man, I'm damaged goods. I've had homosexual intercourse, more times than I can count now. I never wanted any of this, _any_ of it...but what consolation is that now? I'm probably headed straight to hell. No, I'm certain of it. But what if with a wave of the hand it all suddenly wasn't homosexual? What if...I was just like you, or mom? What then?"

"Gordy...Do you even realize what you're saying?"

"Yeah. I've been thinking about this, for about nine months now. Long and hard. I think I know what I'm getting into, more or less. Done my research at the library. I even brought home a book."

He took the book out of his backpack and showed it to Bonnie. "See?"

The book's title was _Sex Dysphoria and Options for Surgical-Hormonal Treatment_. It was a thick tome of approximately 490 pages, wrapped in a hard-cover spine.

He's 100% serious about this, Bonnie realized, shocked.

An hour and forty-four minutes remained before midnight.

"How about you?" Gordy asked.

"Huh?"

"How're you doing? I know you haven't gotten over it. Your pen pal boyfriend dumping you."

"He wasn't my boyfriend," she said, not so much annoyed as something else that Gordy couldn't put his finger on.

"Doesn't matter to me," Gordy said. "I'm in the last position to judge anybody. But he's somebody you feel like you can't live without...Right?"

After a second's hesitation she came clean and nodded.

"Did you ever get around to returning the money you got for that?"

She shook her head.

"Did you spend it?"

She shook her head.

"You're still waiting for him to come back? Even though it's been a year and a half?"

"You know I am," she said. "On the day that Tarokun comes back to me, no matter how far off that day is...I want him to know that he never left my mind, that he always has a home here."

"...I'm glad for you, then. To genuinely care about someone that much."

"You will too, one day," Bonnie said.

"Something tells me I won't. That's not how my brain is wired. I've been noticing more and more lately...People at my school. They're all part of a clique. Everybody's got somebody as a friend. Sometimes those friendships date back years and years. I, on the other hand, have never taken the time to do that. For the longest while I was content to live in my own little bubble. No, that's not entirely true. When I was younger, there were kids who I was happy to talk with about comics, and them with me. I had some good times back then. But as time went on, a lot of them grew out of it, lost interest in comics altogether. But where did that leave me?"

He sighed. "These days, I don't know what to say to anybody. It astounds me, that there are people who can talk to their friends every day and never run out of stuff to say. Me? If I can't talk about comics then I don't even know where to begin. If I did start up a conversation with a stranger, my mind would go blank after five minutes."

"You've always struck me as kind of...obsessive," Bonnie admitted. "Like you're only interested in a few things, all of which are really nerdy."

"That's just who I am," Gordy said. "I guess it's ironic, then...the only 'real' relationship I have is with Tom. And I wouldn't call that a positive at all."

"Is it really okay, though?" Bonnie asked. "Me and mom, people like us, women...We're expected to be heavily invested in the lives and wellbeing of other people. To be very chatty and social. If you were to...become like us, could you handle that?"

Gordy smiled and shook his head. "That doesn't matter. These are the 1960s. Women have the legal right to pursue their own destinies, even if it goes against social norms. With that in mind, I think I'd be content to shut myself in and just write. To be immersed in the worlds that my mind give shape to, and to attend conventions and talk with fans, even as momentary and shallow as that is...I could live with that. I think I could be happy. Because I'd be doing what I love. The scenarios that I can dream up are endless. I could experience so many different things, while hardly having to leave my house."

"...When the time comes, how will you tell mom and dad?"

Gordy laughed. "Come now, I'm only 14. I've got plenty of time to figure that out. Nothing's going to happen for a long time, after all."

It dawned on Bonnie then and there that she couldn't remember the last time that she'd had such a deep, heartfelt discussion with her brother. They were both spilling their guts. She realized also how much he'd changed in this past year and a half.

Without thinking she asked one more question:

"Every now and then, when I see you coming home, and you head straight to the bathroom to wash out your mouth with a bar of soap, is that-

"C-Come on!" Gordy protested, blushing and looking away. "You know d*mn well what that is! And I'd much rather never talk about it with anyone."

"S-Sorry..."

"Still though, I'm glad I was able to talk to you about this," Gordy said. "I've been keeping this to myself all this time...it feels good to let it all out."

"Yeah. I know that feeling. Ever since Tarokun left, I haven't had anyone to talk to. About life and stuff."

* * *

They sat and talked a little more for a while.

It was nearing midnight.

"I have an idea for a story," Gordy said.

"Alright. Hit me."

Gordy blinked. "Hit you?"

"It's a figure of speech. Never mind. Just tell me."

He sat up, excited. "Imagine it's 50 years into the future. So, like, 2017 and 2018. In the future there's the obvious things like flying cars and they've colonized the moon and mars. But the science fiction element most important to the plot is human cloning. By obtaining hair or skin cells a full clone of a person can be made. Here's the deal: the clones are of the same biological age as the tissue they come from, and have a limited lifespan of maybe five or six years, maybe seven. In addition, they do not retain the memories of the people that they come from. Their minds are a blank slate and they have to be taught how to function in society."

"What's the point of cloning then?" Bonnie asked.

Gordy grinned maliciously. "It's because the person who 'sponsors' the act of cloning gets custody of the clone, and is able to rear it up to behave exactly as he or she wants. Let's say you're a grown man. In high school you had a crush on a girl but you never had the nerve to ask her out. So you ask a 'hunter' to go through her old effects and obtain some DNA samples from her. Then you clone her, you raise her, and you go out with her."

"Creepy," Bonnie said.

"Okay, yes. I haven't really thought about it but when I put it that way it does sound a little creepy. But, say, there are also people who have dead loved ones who they miss dearly. These clones have the potential to bring joy and comfort to their lives."

"But what about the rights of the clones?"

"They have none," Gordy said. "The only legal limits are that you're not allowed to torture or kill a clone. But imagine, in this world. Anybody can be cloned, or at least in theory. That includes the President, right? So let's say there's a conspiracy to steal some of the President's DNA, clone him, raise him to follow their agenda exactly. And then they kidnap the real President and replace him with their fake."

"But since the clone's lifespan is so much less," Bonnie said, "that'd suggest there are notable biological and genetic differences between them and the real deal. So couldn't the government find out quickly through a simple test of the imposter's body? Plus, if they start out not knowing more than babies, how could you possibly teach one to run a country in less than 7 years?"

"Hmm, I guess you have a point," Gordy said. "Dang it. I'm gonna use this concept, I'll just have to make the story within this universe something else."

There was a pause.

"Gordy, I have to ask you another question."

"As long as it's nothing graphic," he said with a huff.

"Do you ever dream...That the problems of your current life were played out, but in a different life, as a different person?"

"Huuh? What's that even supposed to mean?"

She sighed, content with that answer. "Nothing. It's nothing."

Bonnie looked up at the space-themed clock on the wall.

The time was 12:03.

"We missed it," she noted out loud.

She stood up. "Well, that's that. Goodnight."

She walked towards the bedroom door.

"Hey, Bonnie?"

She stopped.

"Happy January 1st," Gordy said. "Here's to our hope in a better year."

"Yeah. Let 1968 be our best year yet...right?"

* * *

Three day's accumulation of dirt and sweat having been washed away, he stepped out of the bathhouse.

And looked up at the stars.

Somewhere halfway across the world, he knew Bonnie slept under the same stars.

Holding his work clothes and shoes in his hands, Nobutaro walked home, wearing a traditional-style light blue kimono and wearing wooden clogs (similar in design to flip-flops).

He went up the stairs and slammed the apartment door behind him.

It was New Year's Eve, but for a health insurance sales agent that meant little other than that a coworker brought in some mochi cakes for them to enjoy.

As a health insurance sales agent Nobutaro made full use of his powers to gauge the needs and insecurities of his clients. He had instant access to whatever family medical knowledge they had, of pains and aches they felt, of tightness in the chest. He knew right away of occupational hazards his clients were cognizant of. Likewise, he knew their budget constraints before he even knocked on the door.

For a person whose Japanese had stagnated long ago he was dang good at his job. He had to slowly re-acclimate himself to high-intensity chatter in Japanese happening all around him on a daily basis, but compared to his peers he still enjoyed a fundamental advantage that enabled him to consistently outperform everyone except Tsuneo, the top sales agent at that location. Considering that he was still a teenager, his seeming talent quickly earned both the admiration and envy of the entire office. He worked, on average, about 58 hours a week, neglecting to go to church on Sundays (as there were no Episcopal churches in the area).

His was a very hit-or-miss line of work. He wasn't paid an hourly wage, but rather he received a commission fee for each new paying customer he snagged. In Nobutaro's particular case this worked out quite well because he was now on a fast track to achieving "middle class" salary.

A few weeks ago his employer had informed him that he'd be transferred to a company location in Tokyo after the start of the new year, where there'd be a far greater abundance of potential customers and where his commission fee would be slightly higher. Even home ownership might soon be an option for him after that.

Exhausted, Nobutaro rested his chin on the armrest on the couch.

Home ownership, he thought. A big house, that belongs all to me. Maybe even my own swimming pool to go along with it.

He wouldn't have to share it with anybody. Ever. It'd be his.

And that sounded...

Like a stupid waste of space.

Turning, he looked up at the light fixture overhead.

"...Happy New Year, Bonnie."

And soon after he nodded off to sleep.

* * *

("Be Thou My Vision" by Kalafina, feat. Yuki Kajiura, instrumentals in "Celtic" style)

_Bi thusa mo shuile a ri mhor na nduil_

_Lion thusa mo bheatha, mo cheadfai's mo stuaim_

_Bi thusa i m'aigne gach oiche's gach la_

_Im chodladh no im dhuiseacht lion me le do gra_

_Bi thusa mo threoru i mbriathar is i mbeart_

_Fan thusa go deo liom is coinnigh me ceart_

_Glac curam mar athair is eist le mo ghui_

_Is tabhair domhsa ait conai istigh i do chroi_

* * *

In 1968, just a few days after the start of the New Year, the city of Wichita received an unwelcome surprise.

Another crime scene (of a murder), whose conditions reeked of the long-dormant Stigmata Killer. After nearly 10 years of inactivity had they now resurfaced to finish what they started?

**To Be Continued**


	11. Chapter 11

**An Ufotable Production**

**Saturday, January 6, 1968**

"Hmm."

Bonnie handed the paper back to Mr. Yuri.

"That's it? News like this, and...That's all you have to say?"

"It's not like this will send Tarokun running back," Bonnie said. "Not like he even knows about this, right? I'm sure it's not such breaking international news that he'll be hearing about it in Japan."

The Stigmata Killer's seventh victim was discovered late Friday night outside of a ballpark by a man who came in late to apply white paint to the grass for a game the morning following (which was promptly canceled). As had been the case with the victims 10 years ago, the body (of a male person in his mid-20s) was stretched out on the hood and windshield of his car, his arms stretch out, piercings through both wrists and both ankles, and through his side, the words "IRNI" written in blood. The man had last been seen alive leaving work, as was normal for Stiggie's victims.

"In any case," she continued, "the Stigmata Killer is in another class altogether. Me and Tarokun tracked down two murderers, but...a ten year long police manhunt, one involving the Kansas Bureau of Investigation and the Kansas Highway Patrol, has turned up nothing. He never leaves incriminating evidence behind."

"In short, you think the only way he's going down is if the police catch him in the act," Yuri said.

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Still, though, the degree of professionalism he exhibits, it's like he has police experience or something," Yuri said.

There was a pause.

And then it dawned on Bonnie.

"Are you...accusing my dad?"

"All I'm saying is, you need to watch him carefully these coming months. If you see any sudden change in his behavior, especially corresponding with the time period that a murder takes place, then you need to tell me. In fact, since a murder just happened, it'd be best if you watched him tonight."

Bonnie didn't know what to say.

"Let's think this through rationally, Bonnie. Your father has in his possession the same kind of knife that the Stigmata Killer uses. He lived in the area in 1957 and 1958, and so could've perpetrated those original crimes, as well as this present one."

She felt like she just had the wind knocked out of her. She sat there gaping, her eyes wide open.

"The implications of this are actually kind of funny," Yuri continued. "It'd mean that you and Tarokun used, in your attack against Doug McCormack, the same knife that Stiggie used against his seven victims."

"Seven," Bonnie repeated. "...Crap!"

"Heh?"

"We need to check out that PO Box right now!"

* * *

**Also Sprach Zarathustra: XI: Houdini**

* * *

"Aah...look at all the lonely people..."

He repeated:

"Aah...look at all the lonely people..."

He tapped the steering wheel to the beat, singing slightly out of key.

Bonnie returned to the car.

"We good?"

"I couldn't find it," she said, having just searched her dad's car for the key to the PO Box.

"Huh?"

"It's strange, though. I'm pretty sure we put it back last time."

"Are you absolutely certain?" he asked.

"N-No, not really," she admitted. "But I think I remember me and Tarokun doing so a little while after McCormack. Maybe I was mistaken?"

"Well there's nothing we can do about it now," Yuri said. "Except, um, when you get home be sure to search your room thoroughly. Maybe you brought it home in your pocket or something."

"That was more than a year and a half ago, though..."

She paused.

"Though it is possible...that he simply found another place to stash the key, right?"

"I suppose," Mr. Yuri said. "But that'd mean he's suspicious. Of you, or..."

And then Bonnie realized. "I let him know."

"Huh?"

"I told him something that led him to find out we accessed the PO Box."

"When was this?"

"Christmas Day," she answered.

"That'd explain it then," he said, slumping back in his seat, rubbing his eyes. "You're never getting back in there...Well, I have a knife just like it, if in the future you should ever have need of it."

"Thanks."

He sighed. "It is disappointing, though. Looks like we'll never find out. If only you'd kept your mouth shut."

"Well I had no way of knowing the Stigmata Killer would suddenly decide to start back up," she protested.

"Fair enough. Still, if we were just able to peer inside the PO Box, we could carefully observe whether or not there was a correlation."

"Between the times that the knife goes missing and when a new murder happens?"

"Yeah."

"...You know, we could still watch it," Bonnie said.

He scoffed. "And what, stake it out 24/7? Stiggie isn't the type of serial killer who strikes once a week, or once a month. It's random in its intervals, and often separated by too great a length of time to keep consistent watch. You know I have to make a living. My Saturday lessons with you don't pay the bills. My point is, it's not worth it."

"That assumes a proactive approach," she said. "If there's some delay between when Stiggie kills and when he returns the knife, then we could make use of that."

"So basically, I should keep watch tonight outside the Post Office," Mr. Yuri finished. "I can manage that. Be wary, of course. Keep an open mind to the possibility, that your dad really will show."

She nodded soberly. "I'm prepared for that. I don't want it to be true, but I'll accept it if, against all odds, he does turn out to be the monster behind all of this."

"Honestly? Just like that?"

"Y-Yeah. All of my life I've looked up to my dad, but I know now that he's not the hero I always thought of him as. This would simply be to take my disappointment in him one step further, assuming that it's really true."

But feeling consoled by a thought, she smiled faintly. "But this time, there's something different. As for this murderer, if it really is him, then we'll have evidence to give the police, right? Unlike the others...we won't have to kill him. No, I refuse!"

Mr. Yuri nodded reassuringly. "I would never ask you to do something like that. We'll do this the right way. That's a luxury we can afford, in any event."

* * *

**Sunday, January 14, 1968**

Rev. Bauer flipped through the pages.

"Okay," he said. "Today we'll be continuing our discussion on the Book of Philemon. As you'll recall, Onesimus was a slave to Philemon, a fellow believer. Onesimus, having run away, ended up in the hands of Paul, helping to comfort him during his imprisonment..."

On cue, Bonnie clutched her chest and grunted.

Her mother took notice of this rather quickly.

"Can I use the bathroom?" Bonnie whispered. "It's, uh, you know. That usual time."

Stacey hurriedly and awkwardly nodded.

Bonnie got up and headed for the door.

* * *

Bonnie locked the bathroom door behind her.

The window was right there. This was her best chance to climb out and check one more time.

Yesterday, Mr. Yuri had informed her that, although he staked out the Post Office every night that week and the Saturday prior, he never saw Chad entering or exiting the building.

So had they been mistaken this whole time? If so, was it...?

She stepped onto the grass outside and crept up to the car, opening the passenger side door and climbing inside.

Two minutes later, she was holding the key in her hand.

Strange. Very strange. Did she just not look very good last time?

She put the key back in its place and headed back.

Back inside the bathroom, she breathed a sigh of relief.

"So it wasn't dad after all."

Still, though, it was like having to reinvent the wheel. With Tarokun's powers, they could've confirmed or debunked their suspicions in a matter of seconds.

Without him, the trail had gone cold. She could not singlehandedly catch the Stigmata Killer. No way, no how.

There was nothing to do now but to wait.

Until another murderous asshole showed his face in Wichita. Somebody who was more sloppy, who left some kind of clue she could use to track his crime back to him.

And then:

Then she could bring him back. Because she remembered, that thing he said to her once.

_"Bonnie, I will *never* place your life in danger, for any reason. In either your own body or in mine, you're going to live. I won't let anything happen to you. Absolutely not_."

This gave her hope. Or, rather, faith.

Faith in Nobutaro, that he wouldn't let her die at the hands of a serial killer. He would hear her frightened scream, halfway across the world, and come running back to save her, dispatching the fiend with his trusty blade.

It was an incredibly risky plan, for sure. But it was probably the only way. Because if after a year and a half Tarokun hadn't come back to her, what guarantees did she have that he ever would? It was this or nothing.

In the meantime, she had to prepare. Keep watch. Everything was riding upon the success of this coming operation.

"Operation Prodigal Son"

* * *

**Monday, January 29, 1968**

"So if you'll just read paragraph two, those are the details of your payment plan for months February through April. I can get you a lower rate for these three months, but afterwards, because of that incident, your premiums will most likely go up. Does this sound alright to you? If so, sign your name on the dotted line on the last page. If not, we can talk it over some more."

After reading it and mulling it over for a second, the middle-aged man took the pen and signed his name accordingly.

Nobutaro received the papers once more.

"Alright then," he said. "I'll just get this put into the system and you'll be all set."

He bowed politely to the man and departed.

Inside the man's house, he'd gotten a glimpse of the calendar hanging on the wall.

"1968," he mused in English, walking down the street.

That was surprising, though. It'd been a Western calendar, instead of displaying the year as Showa 43.

He stopped.

"...Sh*t."

This was the year that that thing had to be accomplished. Otherwise...

Otherwise, the Council would lose faith in his prophecy, it having failed in one of its predictions. What would happen to him then? What would happen to his plan?

There was one person who he could trust, to get the job done. Somebody who evidently had no qualms about killing, though so far it seemed he'd only done so for good reasons.

Mr. Yuri.

How long'd it been? A year and a half, at least. There was no way around it. He had to just suck it up and ask.

But what a ridiculous request it was.

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Tuesday, January 30, 1968**

A shot of the good stuff to calm his nerves.

And then he began work on his last pattern for the Eastern season.

Because eggs had a very short shelf-life, or even refrigeration-life, it was impractical for Yuri to sit down and paint each individual egg beforehand.

Instead, he had a method of "printing" patterns onto large quantities of eggs. With it, he could finish up to 300 eggs in one day. It was brilliant enough that he considered patenting his method, but unless he was going to kick things up to factory-level production of his eggs then it wasn't worth it. Also, he took pride in his work as an artisan, an increasingly outdated class of laborer from a long-gone era.

_Hey_.

Startled, he ended up smearing the paper.

He stood up angrily.

"F**k!" he let out.

_Hey, Mr. Yuri_.

He looked left, and then right.

Then it hit him.

"T-Tarokun...?"

_Yeah. It's me. How're you doing_?

"Where've you been all this time?!" Yuri demanded.

_I'm sure Bonnie told you the full story. No_?

"She did," he admitted. "To think she was actually your sister this entire time."

_I need to ask you a favor_.

"I'm listening."

_No, I mean, a really, really huge favor_.

"Color me intrigued. What is it?"

_...I need you to assassinate someone_.

"Huh?"

_I'm pretty sure you heard me_.

"Well, duh. You're broadcasting straight into my head. I heard you just fine. But something like that...why?"

_It's a very long story_.

"I'm not sure whether you noticed, but I have plenty of time."

* * *

_So anyways, uh, that's everything that happened_.

"Wow."

Mr. Yuri laughed, not so much because Nobutaro said something funny but rather to express his bewilderment at the situation.

"You're really plotting to alter the course of human history, huh? And there are so many moving parts to your plan, or so to speak. It's convoluted beyond belief, what you have up your sleeve. I just have one question: why did you choose that person? Of all the ways you could've set this up...why did you go with the death of a good man?"

_Because the Council is split_.

"Split?"

_Between the faction that believes in Hajime Suzuki's vision, and those who want to go back to the Organization's original founding mission. Now that Mr. Suzuki is dead, the latter faction, long suppressed, is starting to re-assert itself. The new Boss was stuck with this problem, and so he put pressure on me to complete translation of the plates. However, the mere fact of the translated plates would not in itself be enough to convince the originalists. To do so would require a supernatural proof, in this case a prophecy. It's not enough that I cite something that's already happened, because they're already suspicious that I forged the entire thing. Instead, I had to include a prediction about the future that comes true. However, if the nearest such prediction was decades away from now, then over time the 'prophecy' I wrote would lose momentum and be forgotten, and the originalists would take over. So it has to be something that happens relatively soon_.

"And so you chose the assassination of Dr. King in 1968," Yuri finished. "Well, don't worry about it."

_What do you mean_?

"I'm saying we've already got that bit covered."

_That..._?

"We've been planning it for a while now. His death."

_We_?

"The FBI."

_...Oh_.

"Yeah. Our plan's already in the late stages of preparation. A colleague of mine's already volunteered to do the deed, and to be the fall guy afterwards. It shouldn't be too long now."

_It has to be done before the end of the year, though_.

"That shouldn't be a problem. In any case, don't blame yourself for what follows. We would've done this regardless. Director Hoover's given us the go-ahead."

Silence.

"...You know Bonnie's still waiting for you."

_Is that so_?

"Yeah. She's been waiting for all this time."

_Well...maybe she shouldn't any longer. In any event, don't tell her I reached out to you. That'll only serve to get her hopes up_.

"You're really not coming back?"

_I'm not_.

Why?

_Because I still love her_.

There was a pause.

_I really want to see her again_, Nobutaro continued. _But nothing good can come of that...right? So it's best that our separation last indefinitely. That way, we can both eventually move on_.

"You a**hole. Making her miserable like this just because of how you feel."

_I'm sorry_.

"Don't tell me. Tell her."

_That is not going to happen...Goodbye_.

"Wait-

But he was already gone.

* * *

**Friday, March 22, 1968**

A man stood on a street corner with a cardboard sign indicating the direction of the sign-in area for "StiggieCon 1968". Today commemorated the 10th anniversary of the death of Katie McNamara, finishing off a string of 6 murders, which was followed by a nearly 10-year hiatus that ended earlier this year when his/her seventh victim turned up.

The convention-goers were in for a treat: while the convention was going on Stiggie was still at large and could claim another victim any day. In fact, for many that was kind of the point: to see who might be the lucky sleuth to piece together his or her identity, a detail that long eluded the police, based on a cache of police files that'd been leaked to the public since 1958, by the same person behind the Giles Report. It was his hope that somebody somewhere would be able to solve this mystery.

This convention was two-faceted, then: First, there were the simple tourists, who wanted to see the sights and buy merchandise. But then there were the amateur detective types, who locked themselves in a meeting hall and spent hours peering over copies of those original files. They collaborated with each other and tried to come up with some new angle to the puzzle based on some detail of the available evidence that others had yet to pick up. They also looked at maps of the city and photographs of locations relevant to the murders.

The police were actually glad that the latter group had come here, because there was a chance they might just catch a lucky break. But the former group was looked down on. They were, after all, glorifying the crimes of a murderer. It was in incredibly poor taste, and three local churches had gotten together and decided to picket the convention. In attendance at the protest were people who were family of Stiggie's seven victims so far.

Predictably, somebody crossed a line, prompting somebody to call the police.

And so, here Chad was.

At the ballpark where, earlier this year, the seventh victim's body was found. Awaiting a group of tourists who'd flocked here were a larger group of angry protesters, screaming at them, calling them "psychopaths" and telling them to "get out of our town". Both groups were trespassing on the property, which was why the call had been made.

This is gonna be a doozy, he thought.

He walked until he could see the two crowds standing in the middle of the grassy field, a baseball diamond.

*ahem*

Nothing.

He breathed in and-

"HEY EVERYONE MAY I PLEASE HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?!"

He positioned himself between the two groups.

"Alright," he said. "Um, so, big surprise, none of you have permission to be here. So you're all going to have to leave now."

One of the "tourists" scoffed.

"Whatever," he said. "Turned out there was nothing to see here anyway."

That was surprisingly easy, Chad noted as he watched the crowd disperse.

He sighed, knowing there'd probably be more calls like this throughout the day. It was best if he got back to the station as quickly as possib-

...Huh?

"Is that-

It was Kevin.

He waved. Kevin, who'd been with the protesters, turned around and walked up to him.

"Day off?" Chad asked.

"I asked for it, yeah. Just for today I think Mr. Callaghan can handle it all. I'm gonna repay him later with free drinks."

"You're, uh, protesting?"

"Somebody has to do it," Kevin said. "Somebody's gotta make these tourist types feel ashamed of themselves. 'Cause I mean, come on..."

"Yeah," Chad said. "I don't know who scares me more. Stiggie or these sizable crowds of people who idolize him."

"...The way I see it, there's only one reason why someone ought to be out here today. And that's to share in the misery of the families left behind."

There was a pause.

The wind swept some leaves across the field, one brushing across Chad's shoes.

"You know," Kevin continued, suddenly super serious, "At times like this I like to fantasize, that I could've chosen to give up my own life for those of Stiggie's victims. That I die so they get to live. But, how silly is that, right? When I think like that, it makes all of this about me. It's about gratification of my own ego. Which makes this line of indulgent thinking totally meaningless and void of moral relevance. Beyond that, it's a cheap thing...because I know that if it really came down to it I wouldn't."

"I'm not like you," he continued. "I don't have a family. Or a wife. Or anybody who depends on me. Sure, there'd be people who'd be very sad if I died. But relatively speaking I'm an expendable person. And yet, I prioritize my own life over the lives of other people. That's the way I am, the way I've always been, I suppose. I just don't want to die. However worthless my life really is, I will not give it up. No matter what. As a police officer in Broadway, I get to reap all the honors of being an officer of the law. But I don't actually have to put myself at risk. As for a transfer to, say, Wichita, I would never do that. Because I don't have what it takes to actually put my life on the line. I just dress up in a uniform and make believe, while everyone cheers and claps."

"Kevin..."

"So WHY did you do it?!" Kevin demanded, angry. "Why did you leave the Broadway force? You know you have people counting on you! You're the complete opposite of me, right?"

"...No, we're the same, I think," Chad said. "That's not to say I'm not willing to take some gambles with my life. I am. But I'm not such a good person either. I don't deserve to live any more than you do...And it's not just you and me. The things I've seen would make your stomach turn. A couple of months ago we entered the house of a single mother, a deplorable junkie, and caught her in the act of injecting heroin into her baby."

"What?"

"I know, right?" Chad said. "All my life I've heard preachers preach from the Good Book. And their message was always the same. The world is f*cked because we're sinners. The older I get, the more I believe that. The human race is unworthy of the good things it enjoys. I say that not as a disinterested observer from the outside, because that's impossible, but rather as a human being."

"...Still, though," Kevin said, "the way that you're talking cheapens the crimes of exceptionally wicked people, doesn't it? By drawing an equivalence between them and people in general. I'd rather we don't let serial killers like Stiggie off the hook. Because he is fundamentally different from everyone else. And the same goes for all the other murderous wackos in this town."

There was a pause.

"Speaking of other wackos," Kevin said, "you've been making any leeway at all?"

Chad shook his head. "Not on any of those cases, no. Well, for the most part I've been busy with other stuff. I've barely had any chances at all to go over the case files. But...at least I'm being productive. That's the important thing."

"Well, uh, have you tried putting it together?" Kevin suggested weakly.

"Huh?"

"N-Nothing. Just throwing words out there but even I don't know what I meant by that."

Another pause.

"So I'd better get going before the bus leaves without me," Kevin said with a chuckle.

"Bus?"

"Church bus. I came here with them."

"I see. Well, it was nice seeing you again. Say hi to Gay for me."

"Will do."

* * *

As Chad returned to his police vehicle, and then headed back to the station, he mulled it over in his head.

Come to think of it, yes. What inspired him to transfer in the first place had been the Stigmata copycat who used the same kind of weapon, and who left behind a dead body in Broadway. To his count, based on the different MOs there were now at least two, and probably three serial killers in Wichita at this time. The first was Stiggie, and then the "knife copycat". The knife copycat had murdered two people in 1966 and then ceased activity.

The police by now had reached a consensus that the string of automobile asphyxiation cases were also the work of a serial killer. Strangely enough, the police investigation turned up a witness claim that a young woman was seen leaving one of the houses shortly before the body was discovered dead. It might've been the last house where a body turned up, if he recalled.

But it was very odd; now that he recalled, didn't he hear something about a young woman being seen talking to Leroy Babineaux, one of the knife copycat's victims, outside his home before his death? Long ago the police had dismissed that detail as being irrelevant. It was probably just an Avon Lady randomly soliciting homes not knowing who their occupants were. Or maybe it was a relative of his.

Chad, now at the station, mumbled to himself as he took out those respective case files from their dusty shelves.

"But what if they were the same?"

Connected. Two crime scenes, the hallmark of two different-

Crap. A third time came to mind. The murder of Doug McCormack. A young woman was seen on the grounds of the all-boy's school some time before the night of his murder.

Leroy Babineaux and Doug McCormack were both victims of the knife copycat. A young woman was connected to both. In the case of Leroy Babineaux, it had been a seedy apartment complex, a rough place mainly inhabited by single men. A place no respectable woman would want to be seen near.

Come to think of it, originally the police had suspected that the woman might've been a prostitute. But the way that she seemed to have presented herself led the witness to rule out that possibility. Furthermore, Babineaux slammed the door on the woman within a few seconds, instead of letting her in as would've been expected of a prostitute.

So a woman was present both times, in places where one would not expect a woman to be. Shortly before...

"That young woman was the knife copycat," he realized.

Descriptions of her physical appearance at the school, at the apartment complex, and at the home of the dead woman matched. Granted, the descriptions given were vague enough that it might not have meant anything. But they all described her hair style as being similar. They described her as wearing dresses instead of pants and save at the woman's home (where it was dark outside) she was described as riding a bicycle.

A bicycle...?

He tilted his head, puzzled.

So it's the same woman for sure, he thought. Those two times. They didn't see the lights of a car leaving at the house, so probably all three times.

"But what would she be doing at the murder scene?" he wondered.

At other crime scenes with the same automobile asphyxiation MO only a young man was seen leaving.

"...I've got it!"

He stood up.

C-Could it really be? he thought.

The young man was probably the killer of those women. The young woman who'd been present at so many convenient places, the knife copycat, probably entered the house to check out the scene after the fact. Considering that the phone-caller who tipped off the police was not a woman's voice, the woman who checked out the house evidently did not trust the police and was up to no good, and so did not report to them what she saw.

And soon afterward, a young man died at her hands.

Chad dug through the shelf and pulled out another case.

The death of Charlie Hudson, the black man who'd been brutally dragged to death behind a car back in 1966. He read through the case details.

There were several listed suspects. One of them was...?

Leroy Babineaux. His death was a relatively short time afterwards, before the police could question him. That confirmed it.

The knife copycat was not really a copycat after all. Instead, she was:

A serial killer who targeted killers.

He dropped everything and ran out of the room into the hallway.

"Chief, I need to speak to you right away!" he shouted.

There were two remaining serial killers in Wichita, one of them an avenging angel and the other a monster.

But little did Chad know that there would soon be a new player in town.

* * *

**That Night, 7:57 PM**

*BLAM*

Letting go of the smoking gun, that person fled into the night before witnesses could gather around the scene.

They turned into an alleyway and dove behind a tin trashcan, their heart racing.

It having happened just a couple of seconds ago, they had a difficult time accepting what'd just happened.

They'd shot a man in the back of the head with his own pistol.

The method was perfect. Too perfect. And they were the only person in the entire city of Wichita who could've pulled it off, thanks to their special talent.

They shook their head. This was no time to rest. They had to get as far away from here as possible.

They had to make their way back home.

Well, more like home base. The entire city was their home. No, rather...

Their kingdom. They were the king of the night, and whatever their heart desired they took.

It just so happened that tonight they took a life.

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Saturday, March 23, 1968**

"Here you go. Your big chance."

Bonnie read the article on the front pages about last night's murder.

The victim had been a tourist who'd driven all the way from Ohio. He was last seen leaving a coffee shop in the area, "Turkish Delight", late at night.

Bonnie folded her arms.

"Serves him right," she said. "You come to celebrate a murderer and end up getting murdered? Poetic justice at its finest."

There was a pause.

"But you're right," she continued. "This is my chance. All we have to do is track this person down."

"Assuming the police don't get to him first," Yuri said.

"Of course."

Bonnie re-read the article.

"So the victim was shot in the back of the head with a gun that was left on scene," Bonnie noted. "That's odd. Couldn't the weapon be traced back to the killer? Why would he leave it behind?"

"Because it wasn't his," Yuri said.

"Huh?"

"It was the victim's gun, most likely."

"So he wrestled the gun out of the victim's hands and shot him with it as he tried to flee," Bonnie surmised.

"Or something like that. A brute force method, but I guess having a feminine touch was never part of the job description for a murderer. Still, though, we don't know whether the person behind this will go on to commit more murders. If not, then everything may be contingent on the trail of evidence left behind from this individual crime."

"No, he'll go serial," Bonnie insisted. "It's just a matter of time. As the article said, the victim was a tourist from out of state. Based on that we can rule out, say, an old grudge as a motive."

"It could've been a robbery gone sour."

"Even if that's the case, the crime has been reported in the news," Bonnie said. "He's crossed that line once already, and if he does it again he can gain infamy as a Stigmata copycat."

There was a pause.

"So what are we going to do?" Yuri asked.

"That's easy. We do what we've always done: investigate."

* * *

*ring*

Gravity closed the door behind her.

Bonnie took a seat at the front counter.

She tapped her fingers against the polished surface, glancing left and right.

It was a pretty nice place, by the looks of things. The place was air conditioned and there was the fresh smell of coffee in the air. For whatever reason, however, it made her stomach feel weird.

"Hi. Can I get you something to drink?"

"Um, yes, one small expresso, with cream and sugar."

The man chuckled. "You mean an espresso?"

"Y-Yeah..."

"Coming right up."

As the man walked over to the espresso machine, she checked her wallet just to confirm she had the money.

"So, um, I heard something happened here last night?" Bonnie asked.

The man sighed. "Not really. It was somewhere outside near here. The police questioned me about it, but all I could tell them is that the guy who got shot was a customer for a little while."

"How long did he stay?"

"Huh, the police asked me that same thing. Uhh, I told them about an hour, but looking back I think it was more like 40 to 45 minutes. He was a talkative fellow, though he came here alone."

"Did he have a gun on him?"

"I wouldn't know," the man said. "He sat at the front counter like you're doing now, and I wasn't watching him carefully or anything as he came in or left. He ordered coffee and some sweet pastries, and then he paid, and left."

"Do you know where he sat?" she asked.

"Yeah, right there."

The man pointed to the seat at the very end.

The very loud machine came to life with a whirl, cutting their conversation short.

Finally, Bonnie's coffee was finished.

"Here you go."

"Thank you."

The coffee was in a paper cup, which meant-

"Can I take this with me to go?" she asked.

"Sure. Your total will be..."

She paid and stood up.

"Hey."

She turned to see a burly man in a construction worker's hard hat signaling to her.

She walked up to him.

"Why're you asking about last night?" he asked.

"Just curious," she lied.

"Well, I was here then," he said. "And yeah, I remember the guy. He had a gun on his hip."

She nodded. "Do you know the make?"

"The m...? Oh, right. No, I don't. I don't know much about guns. It was a little gun, small enough to hold with one hand."

That's not a very helpful description, Bonnie thought.

"Well, thanks," she said with a polite smile.

She left.

She took several steps forward and then turned around, just to confirm.

She looked up to see whether there were any light fixtures overhead.

There were not.

That confirms it, she thought. I know what happened here. Most likely he'll follow that same pattern with his future victims.

* * *

"Mr. Yuri, I have to ask you something."

"Hmm? What is it?"

"What do you think are the odds...that the same person would just happen to be a suspect for two murders?"

"You mean to say, the odds that such a person really wasn't the culprit? Well, it would depend. Were the two victims connected? If so, was the dual-suspect also connected to them? For example, were the three of them part of a common association? Your question leaves a lot of information to be desired."

"...Never mind. My point is, our guy's not that dumb. If he's going to do this again and again, he can't have people recalling that he was present."

"So what you're saying is, the culprit never entered the coffee shop, but rather..."

"He just looked inside through the glass. And there was the perfect victim, seated in plain sight, a gun strapped to his hip."

"Now we have a pretty good idea of his MO," Yuri noted. "But Wichita's too large. In addition, we don't yet know his desired interval between crimes."

"Which means we're gonna have to wait for at least one more body to turn up, maybe two," Bonnie said. "Once we know that, however, we'll have a pretty good idea of how to proceed."

"Indeed. He'll be staking out shops and stores with interiors that are highly visible from outside. Places with large glass windows. He'll be looking for someone who openly carries...But that's just the easy part. For all we know, he could follow his victim a quarter mile after they leave the place before killing them. In addition, it'd be difficult to confirm ahead of time that a person was waiting outside an establishment with intent to kill somebody inside. We can't assume that any run-of-the-mill bum loitering on the street corner at night is a serial killer. That person, after all, would likely come unarmed. If so, there's no way to prove it until he commences his attack. If he were to see us trailing him, he might simply stop what he's doing and head into some nearby building. And we'd have no way of knowing that that wasn't just some person walking at night, behind someone else by sheer coincidence."

"I get your point," Bonnie said, annoyed.

They got out of the car and walked into Mr. Yuri's house.

"Oh, I just remembered," Yuri said. "There's something you should know."

"Huh?"

There was a pause.

"No, it's nothing. Your, um, your mom will be here soon?"

Bonnie looked at the clock on the wall. "She should be, yeah...Hey, do you think we can do a short (piano) lesson with the time we have until then?"

"Sure."

* * *

_How might one describe this decade? The 1960s. You were there, of course. But I'm trying to describe a big picture, beyond the mere circumstances of ordinary life._

_It was an age of clarity, and of loss of clarity. Historic wrongs were exposed for the evils that they were, even while untold numbers of Americans lost their faith in classical institutions that helped assign meaning and order to life. Disillusioned youths turned to drugs and promiscuity, and to radical politics. Things that could not satisfy the basic needs of man, but which seemed to help, or at least for a time._

_It was also a decade of violence and terror. Not the most violent decade we've ever experienced. I believe that dubious honor goes to the 1860s, and perhaps the 1930s. So what made the 1960s different? It was that every household with a television set could tune in to the evening news every night and watch in horror as wave after wave of rioting and looting swept across the nation. There just seemed to be no end to it. Even if one's self was not personally affected by any of it, every image on the TV screen seemed to strike too close to home. People who were in fact relatively secure in their effects and their livelihoods became victims again and again and again, of their own making, in their own minds. Because they were not equipped to deal with an age of mass media. Perhaps the human brain in general is not equipped to deal with that. Can it really be said that later generations truly adapted? Or do these same problems persist in the 21st century?_

_Anyways, to many it felt as though nowhere was safe anymore. People stopped sleeping with their doors unlocked. Finally, millions of middle-class white Americans decided that they had enough. They packed up and fled the inner cities across the country because of the growing crescendo of racially-predicated violence, resulting in massive brain drain and capital flight. They left behind black communities that were too poor to levy the taxes to maintain critical infrastructure, beginning a process of urban decay._

_What was at the root of this?_

_Dr. King said that "Riots are the language of the unheard." He warned that every year would probably see heated race riots until white America conceded total equality to its black minority._

_A funny point this was, though. In prior decades, white America's treatment of blacks was considerably more brutal than it was now, in the mid-to-late 60s. And yet the 20s, 30s, 40s, and 50s had seen nothing like the long, hot summer of 1967. In fact, the incidence of race riots only seemed to grow in frequency as more and more sweeping legislation was passed, and more and more landmark Supreme Court rulings were issued, that afforded greater and greater civil protections to Americans of color._

_In short, in the past when no concessions had been given the streets were more peaceful than they were now, when many concessions had been given. Concessions merely yielded demands for more concessions. White Americans had no idea how to respond to this. The more conditions improved, the more violence there was. The strangest of paradoxes, truly._

_Radicalization was taking shape on both sides. Both blacks and whites were getting angrier and angrier about the way things were, increasingly willing to lend an ear to extreme voices, entertaining their toxic ideas._

_It was time for a reset. One that kept all of the gains of the Civil Rights movement thus far but which de-escalated the present climate of fear and desperation. To do that, the firebrands had to be silenced. The liberals who unconditionally supported the movement had to be removed from power. George Wallace had to lose his political standing. Nixon had to take charge and impose "law and order" on the lawless streets._

_And, finally, Dr. King had to stop talking for good._

_Because of the sheer sum of what he had accomplished in the name of equality and human rights. Dr. King was a hero. But there were no guarantees as to what would happen next, what the movement he was the heart and soul of would mutate into over time. What would he be saying four, five years down the road? Given the dramatic turn things had taken in the past 3 years alone, could America even survive another 4 to 5 years?_

_If he were to pass on now, under circumstances such as these, he would become a martyr and a saint. These past 3 years would be a scarce-remembered blip on the radar, wholly overshadowed by the victories he won as the savior and champion of America's downtrodden and oppressed. It could very well be said, then, that by the scheme Director Hoover hatched he would be given the highest honor that his country could give._

_To save him from himself. To not only have all of his existing faults overlooked, but to keep him from living long enough to proceed down a road that would utterly destroy his legacy. A road traveled by other prominent black voices of the 20th century, most notably Langston Hughes: the path to revolutionary Marxism. A contagion that would infect America's roughly 22 million negroes if Dr. King was allowed to serve as the vector, and which from there would spell civil war, and societal calamity, and collapse. _

_Perhaps Dr. King himself did not yet realize where his ideas and rhetoric were headed. But it didn't matter. No matter what he would not abandon the movement that stood for the dignity of his community. He could not be dissuaded from his current path._

_In the aftermath of the events of April 1968, a sanitized version of this period in our country's history would be presented to the general public, taught in schools, commemorated in speeches by the political leadership, for another century or longer. Richard Nixon would win the presidential election of 1968, and bring national unity. If he failed to unite in 1968, then he would have another chance in 1972 as he stood for re-election, presumably enjoying the normal incumbent advantage then._

_What our country needed above all was to heal. The work of Dr. King could be continued later, by another generation in a more favorable climate. We all understood this. I disagreed with the Director's plan to put our greatest hero to death, but I knew better than to try to thwart it. It was the life of one man versus the continued stability of our republic. _

_That was the Director's call. None of us can possibly understand what that's like, being him. The greatest patriot since Abraham Lincoln, a man who devoted his adult life to working from the shadows to keep Americans safe from threats they knew little of. The fate of over a hundred million people rested on his shoulders. It was his job to make calls like that, to sacrifice the life of one man to safeguard the future for the many._

_..._

_..._

_Now that you know, I hope you can find it in your heart one of these days to forgive me, Bonnie. I should've told you this, 50 years ago_.

**"Silly, what good is apologizing if you would do it all over again?"**

* * *

**Friday, April 5, 1968**

Bonnie came down the stairs, ready for school.

Her mother was waiting for her, a look of shock on her face.

"Bonnie, we need to talk."

Bonnie immediately began to fear, some very negative scenarios running through her head.

Had the police found out about her crimes? Or, rather, those perpetrated with her body?

"Have a seat."

Bonnie sat down.

She tapped her foot nervously, repeatedly.

"Did you hear about what happened last night?"

Last night?

"N-No."

"Martin Luther King was shot and killed," Stacey said. "There are riots breaking out all over the country."

Bonnie took a minute to process what she'd just heard.

Finally:

"That's horrible. Who would do such a thing?"

"No school today," Stacey said. "In fact, I'd feel better if you didn't leave the house at all."

Indeed, there would be unrest in the city's northeastern sector. The National Guard were deployed to the scene. Guardsmen wearing gas masks rolled in with tanks to restore order.

* * *

The last man pulled up a chair.

Of the eleven seated men, five had made arrangements to falsify their alibis. All took measures to ensure they weren't being followed or tracked. This was the first direct, face-to-face meeting of all Council members since Mr. Suzuki's death nearly two years ago.

"I trust you've all heard the news about what happened recently in America?" Pisco began at last.

People around the room nodded.

"The Prophecy translated by Nobutaro correctly predicted that this would happen in this year. Our review of the document has come to several conclusions: first, that the 'people of laughter' are the Americans. The 'groaning dark-skinned men' are, of course, America's negro population. Their 'voice' is Martin Luther King, a baptist minister who's achieved international prominence for his leading role in the civil rights movement, which has sought the dismantlement of institutional barriers of racial discrimination against blacks."

"The timing's too convenient," one of the councilmen said. "The boy translates this document, thousands of years old, and one of its provisions comes to pass just one year after the fact? No, even less than a year, actually."

Pisco shrugged. "It was written for us, right? This present generation of the faithful. Its original author knew that one day we would be here having this conversation. Being cognizant of the future, he could've chosen any event. But he chose something that would happen shortly after its translation."

He continued:

"But that's beside the point. In light of these developments, I think the time has finally come. Here and now, let's put it up to a vote. Either we commit the entirety of our Organization, all of its time, resources, and manpower, to the fulfillment of the provisions of the Prophecy, or we do not. That is the resolution we are here to decide on. A simple 'Yea' or 'Nay' will do. All votes are counted equally."

This announcement set off a wave of murmur in the room.

"Gentlemen, either we vote right now or you get comfortable in your seats. Because I've tasked the Sergeant-at-Arms to not let anyone escape from this chamber until the matter has been settled."

"You're mad!" someone protested.

Pisco shook his head. "No, Mr. Shirazumi. I am not mad. In fact, I see clearer now than I ever have before. For the first time in my life I know why I was born, what my reason for being is. Do you? Can you say the same, good sir?"

The final tally was 7-4 in favor, crossing the required 3/5ths threshold as per the bylaws of the Organization.

It was official.

* * *

**Sunday, April 7, 1968**

Race riots across the country. The perfect ammunition for Rev. Bauer to deliver a blistering address denouncing the "lawlessness" of a certain large segment of the country. And so it came as a shock to many that he didn't show up today.

Rather, he was in St. Louis meeting with fellow church leaders from the western US to draft a joint statement to the public on some obscure theological issue. Probably not the best use of their time, but whatever.

Bauer flapped his gums and said things that hinted he was a narcissist, but he was ignorant about the subject matter and ultimately didn't play a large role in the drafting of the statement.

His behavior caught the eye of an older priest. After the conference ended, the man pulled him aside and began to chat with him. Soon he was invited to take confession, which Bauer admitted he hadn't done in several years.

They stepped into Bauer's hotel room and then entered the bathroom together, closing the door behind them.

He got into the shower and pulled the curtain so as to make a visual barrier between the two. The older priest sat on the toilet, which had the lid down.

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been one year and half a year since my last confession. I...do I have your word, that no matter what I say here, you won't repeat any of it to another soul so long as you live?"

"You have my word. Go on."

"Very well, then...I've been involved in the ministry for a long time now. Not nearly as long as you, of course. But..."

He sat down in the tub.

"My father was a popular radio host back in the 30s. He was a firebrand, based his career on voicing the kinds of opinions that didn't age very well in hindsight. He had a loyal following, because he had a way with people. He knew what their biggest fears were, and he was able to give voice to that. People appreciated it. Might I even say, people loved him. Not most people, but the ones who listened to what he had to say. And yet, I did not have a happy childhood. He was not a good father, or a good husband. He had mistresses. In truth, he only cared about himself and his own ego. And I...well, what I'm afraid of admitting is that I am just like him."

He continued:

"I love the limelight. Having attention on myself. Lecturing. Preaching. I've always been good at it. I got it from him, I suppose. I remember, as a child, lining up my sister Daphne's stuffed animals in neat rows and preaching to them. For a time I considered going into showbiz. Hollywood. But, as a young man I didn't have peace in my spirit either. I knew I wasn't a good person."

"And so you became a minister?" the older priest interjected.

Bauer nodded. "I thought seminary would change me. I thought devoting my life to such a worthy cause would change me. But it didn't. I brought this nasty, worthless person onto the pulpit of a church. I care about political and social causes, in part because my father taught me to care about all that. But mainly, it's easy to talk about, and it's easy to gain a following talking about that. They're grateful that someone with the credibility afforded a Reverend would espouse those certain opinions. If I were to spend hours on Sunday droning on about the intricacies of theology, though to be fair I do a fair amount of that too, well, people just don't get very excited about that. I tell them what they want to hear, and they give me the applause I want to hear. It's a symbiotic relationship."

"But," he continued, "as a minister, I have to be honest. I don't think my congregants are growing in the Lord under my watch. If I could live the rest of my life just being honest with myself, maybe I'd be happier, and everyone would be better off."

"And by honest with yourself you mean leave the ministry?"

Bauer nodded. "I want to be adored by the masses. But there are ways I can go about attaining that which don't leave my sheep spiritually malnourished. I should entrust my position to someone more worthy and, I don't know, become a television personality, I was thinking perhaps."

And then he summarized his above points with three words:

"I want out."

There was a pause.

"Now, I do have one final regret I'd like to get off my chest," he continued. "There's this girl, see. I know her family, they're regulars at my church. She is...well, I've lusted before. I tried to do less of it when I started seminary and afterwards, but I've just about given up on that by now. I see her face every Sunday. It's the highlight of the service, for me. She's a beautiful young woman. I think so, at least. And...oftentimes I find myself fantasizing. Doesn't matter the time of day, or what I'm doing. In my mind I envision these scenarios. Some rather wild, others more elaborate but tame."

He blurted out:

"I want to have sex with her. At this point that's probably the one thing I want most of all. I want her to be impressed by me, by my title. I want her to call me Father Ken, and then 'daddy'. I want her to call me that, and I call her a naughty girl. Then I take a wooden paddle and.."

He trailed off.

"Still, though, I never acted on this. I never tried to woo her or impress her. I only dream of it, and sometimes when she looks at me I entertain the idea that she's interested. But that's it. So...no harm done, right?"

"People like you...you really have no idea, do you?" the old priest said. "Of the damage your lot does to the Church. Charlatans, the whole lot of you, possessing a form of godliness but denying the power thereof."

"What have I denied?"

The old priest shook his head. "You don't get it."

Awkward silence. And then:

"My penance, father."

"Do three Hail Marys, and go feeling good about yourself."

They were done here. A completely pointless affair, they both knew. But it happened and now Bauer could say that he did it.

And how did he feel?

No different. For the first time in his life he was completely honest with another person about who he was inside. He'd hoped that when this day came it'd prove transformative and powerful. Instead, he felt the exact same as he did before.

He was the exact same person.

"...I see," he said. "It'll always be this way. No point in sticking around, then."

That evening he jumped from his balcony on the 4th story, and plunged to the ground headfirst.

* * *

**Saturday, June 15, 1968**

"Hey, don't get the leather seating wet. Sit on the towel."

"Okay."

15 year old Mitchell was cold and tired. His shared dive with Alex had won them the competition. They completed their basket in 38 minutes, while having to breathe through one respirator. Today Broadway High would be bringing home the big trophy, and their rival, Faith Without Works Lutheran, would go home empty-handed.

"Oh man, my hands are like raisins," Alex said.

The bus door closed, and the overhead lights were killed. The sound of steam coming out of somewhere.

"The track team didn't even come in third this year," Mitchell said. "They laughed at us, but look at us now."

"We'll hang that big trophy in our clubroom, and there it'll stay until the end of time," Alex said. "Our moment of glory has finally arrived. Broadway High's underwater basket weaving team will be immortalized for its exploits. The chicks are gonna dig us this fall."

"Yeah."

"Especially Bonnie, amirite mate?" Alex said, nudging him.

"Knock it off," Mitchell said blushing. "She's too good for me. For either of us."

"Ha, are you kidding? Bonnie? That's the girl who was always talking to herself until high school. Remember?"

"She was on the track team in middle school though."

"Yeah, what a weirdo, right?" Alex said. "She's probably into other chicks. Or likes both."

"I thought she had a boyfriend though. Some guy from Japan."

Alex did the "loco" gesture with his fingers. "You can't believe what she says. She's a complete loon."

"I see her out there sometimes," Mitchell said. "She runs on the track field when nobody's watching. That must suck, not being allowed to participate for real just 'cause she's a girl."

"Well, we can't help who we're born as," Alex said. "We just gotta accept and move on."

"She always sits alone at lunch," Mitchell noted. "Has it always been like that?"

Alex shrugged. "Dunno. Most of what I know about her I heard from my sister. They've hated each other since I think it was third grade. No, scratch that. Second. Doesn't really affect me in the least bit, except that I've had to listen to her go on long-winded rants about Bonnie for years nonstop. Well, that having been said, it's cooled down as of late. It seems they haven't spoken to each other in quite a while. So that means an end to the drama, I guess."

Alex rested against the seat in front of his. "I don't understand you, though. Your taste in women. From what little I've observed with my own two eyes Bonnie Cartwright's almost like a man. Nothing good comes from associating with someone like that."

* * *

**Friday, August 30, 1968**

"M-A-V-E-R-I-C-K-S! Our team has got what it takes cause our team is the best! M-A-V-E-R-I-C-K-S..."

And so they chanted as they did a choreographed dance and "pyramid". The cheer squad for Broadway's track team finished practice for the day and headed to the locker room.

"Hey, did you hear Bob asked Penny out?"

"For real?"

"Yeah. I never thought in a million years that Pennywise McDonald would find a boyfriend."

"Se-riously."

This nonsensical banter continued as such while they stashed away their pompoms.

From the corner of her eye Jane noticed a figure slipping out towards the door.

Normally, one would suspect a peeping tom in this kind of situation. But Jane had other ideas.

She stepped outside and faced the figure now at the other end of the hallway.

"Hey."

Bonnie stopped and turned around.

"You're going out to run again?" Jane asked.

"...Yeah," Bonnie answered.

They stared each other down a few more seconds.

And then Jane turned around and went back in the locker room.

* * *

Bonnie knew to stretch before running. She spread her legs, raised her arms above her, and took them down to her left ankle. Then she raised them clockwise and rotated them down to her right ankle.

Then she stood upright and rolled her head. She could feel the tension exiting her body.

And then, she was off with a mad dash.

Agility in her legs, hips, and back. Strength in her arms. These were the things she was trying to cultivate. Because as last time (2+ years ago) her opponent would have a natural strength advantage.

She went around the usual obstacle (a piece of brick sticking out of the ground) without issue but then-

She tripped over her legs and toppled over, rolling several times.

Gritting her teeth, she sat up.

Was her ankle twisted? It sure hurt like heck. No, this wouldn't do at all. She couldn't go out into the field like this. It'd be tantamount to suicide.

How did he do it? Where did he find the strength to keep on going, when all hope seemed lost? When he'd been overpowered and was even on the verge of death?

He must've been much, much stronger than her. It wasn't even that he was a boy. When he was in her body back then he was the same as always.

(Author's Note: Yes, she was unconscious after Nobutaro woke up at the mercy of Leroy Babineaux. However, she later read his thoughts and saw how he'd handled that situation then.)

She was getting nowhere with this. She hadn't gotten any stronger in a while. Because she wasn't him. She didn't have what it took to do this.

And look, just trying she found herself injured.

She reluctantly tried to stand.

And she could. Relief swept over her person.

And she stood there, dazed, lost in thought. Her eyes were watery.

But after a while it dawned on her. Or, rather, she remembered:

"I don't have to be strong enough. I just have to find that person...and Tarokun will take care of the rest...Because he is strong enough, to carry us both to the end. And because he cares about me. He will not let me die."

She stepped forward, and then turned around and headed back up the slope.

She was gonna give this another shot.

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Saturday, August 31, 1968**

Last night another person turned up dead, the third known victim of the "handgun killer", the Stiggie copycat who made his/her debut earlier this year.

Today she checked out the scene. Sure enough, it was right outside an establishment where one could see inside through the glass, as had been the case the prior two times.

But that didn't tell Bonnie anything new.

Overall it was a rather unfruitful day, though they did manage to estimate an approximate area in which the killer lived based on the three locations.

That night Bonnie showered and then lied in bed looking up at the ceiling.

She went over all the pieces of evidence she could recall, hoping there might be someth-

Wait.

She got out of bed.

And crept downstairs, into the kitchen.

In the dark she put her hands to the telephone and began to dial a number.

It took almost a minute before:

"Hello?"

"It's me," Bonnie said. "I think I might have something."

"And you're telling me this over the phone? Come now, surely I've taught you better than that!"

"Just come here and pick me up. There's something I need to check."

"...Alright. I'll be there in a few minutes. Just let me change and brush my teeth."

"Bring your lockpicking equipment, if you have it."

"Oh come on, are you deliberately trying to leave a trail of incriminating ev-

"See you then," Bonnie interjected abruptly.

And she hung up.

Her eyes pivoted as she swore she heard a creaking noise.

She stood very still for about a minute.

And then she grabbed a flashlight and went outside to wait for her ride.

* * *

The door swung open.

And with that, they were guilty of breaking and entering a police station.

"If anybody's still here then we're both royally screwed," Yuri said.

Bonnie said nothing but just kept going.

They entered the evidence room.

"What are we looking for?" Yuri whispered.

And then, to his surprise Bonnie flicked the light switch on.

"It's alright, I've been in here once before with my dad," Bonnie said. "When I was real little. There are no windows in here so it can't hurt anything."

She spotted the files of the three murders in question and started going through them.

"Careful not to mess up the way they're organized," Yuri said. "You don't want to leave anything behind."

"Let's see," Bonnie muttered. "Height..."

She memorized the heights for the three victims, and then examined the grisly photographs of the back of their heads.

"We're going to need to make copies of these. The entire case files, in fact."

They did that, and then:

"Alright, I think we're done here."

"That's it?" Yuri said.

"Yeah. That's it."

As they were driving back:

"I'm going to have to ask you a favor."

"Okay...?"

"Do you have a gun?"

"Well of course," Yuri said.

"A BB gun?"

"No...But I can get one."

"Do that if you would. After that, I need you to get your hands on some targets."

"...Aah. I see what this is," Yuri said. "Alright then. You want me to run tests and determine the height killer's approximate height? That shouldn't be a problem."

Silence.

"Oh, I remember now. Happy birthday, right?"

No answer.

"I believe you're seventeen now. Did your parents throw a party in your honor?"

Bonnie shook her head. "Things aren't doing very well at home right now. They just kind of forgot, I suppose. It's not very important anyways. It's not like I turned eighteen."

Soon she was dropped off home and she entered through the front door.

The lights were still off so she figured nobody must've heard her leave. Satisfied she went upstairs and fell asleep.

* * *

**Tuesday, September 3, 1968**

"Modern evidence suggests that not only do most European populations share a common origin but in fact they share distant kinship with the Indian and Persian civilizations. It's believed that long ago a nomadic peoples who had domesticated the horse lived originally in or around Central Asia but then migrated in two opposite directions. One invaded the so-called Indus Valley Civilization and conquered the indigenous Dravidian people, laying the groundwork for the Hindu religion and caste system as we know it today. These were known as the Aryans, and such modern discoveries concerning the Indo-Europeans influenced the ideology of the National Socialist party in Germany. The Nazis believed that..."

There was a knock on the classroom door. From the door window Bonnie could see Mr. Yuri standing outside signaling to her.

She stood up and walked out into the hallway.

"You really had to come here? Now?"

"Well I'm sorry but I figured you'd want to know as soon as the results of my tests were in," Yuri said. "Our guy is probably five feet, eight inches tall."

"He is male, then?"

"Most likely yes. However, the first victim was five foot ten and 172 pounds at the time of death."

"What are you saying?"

"I don't think he gets into fights with his victims. I think he simply...pickpockets the guns off their holsters. His victims wouldn't even know what hit them."

"...In that case, we should be looking for a man, five foot eight, arrested at least once before on charges of pickpocketry."

"I already made the call. I'll give them a day or two and then call back."

* * *

"Done."

She slammed the math textbook closed and stood up. She stretched her legs and headed downstairs.

It was late at night. Gordy was flipping through channels.

*pfft*

"This new dishwasher detergent comes in powdered form, and is designed to-

*pfft*

"Welcome back to 'To Catch a Homophile', with your host, Christopher Jansen."

*pfft*

"Captain's Log, stardate...

"...Wait, go back," Bonnie said, intrigued.

Disappointed that he was going to miss (a rerun episode of) his favorite show, Gordy nonetheless went back one channel.

"Our stinghouse is rigged with a dozen hidden cameras. Here comes 26 year old Ramon Vargas, who on the phone went by the pseudonym Naughty Kitty. In a recorded conversation he used graphic innuendo to describe the acts he would willingly perform...on another man. Here he is now, walking through the front door...and right into the arms of the law."

"That's it," Bonnie realized. "Gordy!"

Gordy wasn't paying attention.

She grabbed his shoulders to get his attention. He turned and looked at her.

"I need your help with something. It's very, very important."

* * *

**Monday, September 9, 1968**

The trap was set.

The area in which the latest killer lived/operated was littered now with "Gun Lovers Meet" flyers. The event promised food and drink for attendees. She, Mr. Yuri, and Gordy spent Sunday preparing it.

To fund the event, Bonnie forked over all of the money that she'd saved. It was actually rather pitiful for its size, but she knew that probably only a few local members would show up. Of course, this would mean kissing bye-bye to Tarokun's plane ticket, but simply being united with him via telepathy was the foremost priority here for obvious reasons.

Gordy, not wanting to be caught up in whatever the heck Bonnie had gotten herself tangled into, went to bed. Bonnie, on the other hand, waited in her room until 9:00, when Mr. Yuri was going to come get her (by which time her parents would be fast asleep). She intended on sneaking out.

...

...

Finally, she could see the lights outside.

She crept downstairs. She placed her hand to the doorknob.

"Going somewhere?"

She nearly screamed.

It was her dad, seated quietly at the kitchen table.

"I-I was..."

"There's no need to explain yourself," he said. "If I knew the full truth, I'd probably have to do something about it."

Her eyes widened. An electricity filled the air. Did this mean that...?

"Yes, I think I've more or less pieced it all together," Chad said. "The avenging angel protecting our town; that's you, isn't it? You and Mr. Yuri, whose car I'll bet that is outside."

Bonnie was at a loss for words.

"You don't have to say anything," Chad continued. "Just promise me that you'll come home, once you're finished with the night's deed."

"I will."

She hurriedly swung the door open.

"Oh, and don't damage my knife," Chad added. "It's valuable. You can't just buy it somewhere."

Without saying a word she closed the door behind her.

* * *

What a pleasant night it was.

For a murder.

He arrived not on time but fashionably late, granting enough time for a number of guests to get here.

Of course, he wouldn't step foot inside himself. If that were to happen, well, it'd be very problematic.

His name was Ichabod Vernon, age 30. Born in England, he was the son of a man who knew the intricacies of traditional mechanical clocks and watches, owning a shop in Gloucester. Apparently he inherited his father's knack for that profession; seven years ago he was given an offer to work in America maintaining a giant clock tower dating back to 1898. Its age and increasing obsolescence made somebody who was actually qualified to do work on it a rare commodity indeed. Or, at least, that was what he'd been told.

As it turned out, the pay was much crappier than he expected. He got set up with a run down flat which was an hour and a half's commute from the clock tower. Well, at this point he spent most of his time up in the tower anyways, only returning home sporadically to bathe and whatnot.

His hands always had a black hue, because the cogs required lots and lots of grease to run properly. He always made sure to wash thoroughly before killing someone so as to not leave black residue on the gun left behind.

It went without saying that his life was terribly boring. He wanted something to spruce things up. And so, about three years into the job he turned to pickpocketry.

He was very, very good at it. In all of these years he'd never been caught. His hands, which for years had delicately tinkered with intricate parts in tight spaces, were blessed with a "Midas touch" that any professional thief would die for.

How good was he? Well, he could remove a wallet from somebody's pocket, rummage through its contents and remove a single bill, and then slip it back.

Yes. He'd put the wallet back when he was done. It was incredibly risky but nine times out of ten nobody ever found out they'd been robbed, because the amount taken was miniscule. He had an eye for who'd probably have a lot of money and who wouldn't.

It was a risk that he took every night. But in truth, he wasn't in it for the money. It was the risk itself. He reveled in it.

Eventually he started pickpocketing in the day, to up the stakes. Because it'd become a drug for him. He couldn't stop himself. When he was out stealing stuff, he felt alive.

But eventually he started to entertain a most disgusting fantasy. He'd read about it in the news, the serial killers in this town. But when he saw the virtual applause Stiggie received upon "starting back up" earlier this year, he knew he had to do it.

Pick a man's gun and shoot him in the back of the head with it, and then get away unnoticed before witnesses and cops mobbed the scene.

After doing it once he felt very uneasy about it and resolved never to do it again...But he did in fact do it again, and then again. Because it was a dramatic way to alleviate his boredom, and because it felt easier the second and third times around.

Now here he was, back for a fourth round.

He approached the bright window when-

"Hey. D**kwad."

And then, before he knew what hit him, there was a flash.

His photograph having been taken, he panicked and ran away.

* * *

Itching to give chase, Bonnie knew what she had to do first.

She gently set the camera on the ground. It was Yuri's, and she knew he'd be pretty mad if she just dropped it on concrete. In addition, he'd reprimanded her/them before because apparently two years ago they left a flashlight at the scene during their fight with Doug McCormack.

But then she turned on her flashlight and pursued.

This. This was what she'd been training for all this time. She took off like a bullet and vowed beneath her breath that she'd keep up even if her heart neared the point of giving out.

Fortunately for her, this particular serial killer wasn't in such terrific shape. He was able to keep running but didn't outpace her.

Ichabod ran past a pedestrian traffic light and went into traffic. Bonnie followed him undaunted, and for both of them it paid off because this intersection wasn't too busy this time of night.

He turned a corner into an alleyway.

Bonnie ran after him.

It wound into another turn, which revealed a dead end.

Bonnie's light managed to catch a glimpse of Ichadbod's figure scaling the fence and falling onto the other side. And so she lept onto the dumpster and went over the wooden fence.

Her lower legs reeling momentarily from the heavy impact, she looked forward but couldn't see-

*bam*

He slammed her into the brick wall.

"SOD OFF ya BLOO'EY WANKAH!" he roared.

"You're him...aren't you?" Bonnie said, panting. "You killed those three people."

His expression changed. He mentally tried to assess the situation.

She reached into her pocket and grabbed her knife.

And-

She dropped it on the ground.

"What was that?" he demanded.

"M-My weapon."

He reached down, groped around a bit, and finally located the Ka-Bar knife.

He snickered.

"You really aren't the sharpest broad, you know that?" he said with a hint of glee. "You could've stabbed me with this. I don't carry a weapon on me normally. You'd have the upper hand with this...And now you're going to be killed by it."

This was it. The moment of truth.

Her body quaked violently. She forced her eyes closed. Tilted her head up at the sky.

And:

"TAROKUN, HEEEEEEEEELLP!"

"Well see here lassy nobody's coming. Not before I gut ye ten different ways, that is!"

...

He held her neck upright and placed his knife to it.

"Ehh, I don't have a lot of time me figures so I'll just make it quick."

...

Was this really it, then? Was all of this for noth-

_Bonnie, switch_!

*vreeng*

His eyes jolted open.

His/her hands firmly grasping Ichabod's shoulders, he/she kneed him in the groin and slipped out from his grasp.

Nobutaro fell back as his opponent advanced, in the process Ichabod being touched by the moonlight's familiar glare.

They eyed each other.

"What's this now? You seem like a different person than who you were a minute ago."

With Bonnie's lungs he said:

"I am the King of Hearts. And you, I take it, are the latest parasite to latch onto my town. I will show you no quarter. I will not negotiate. I will remove you promptly and without delay, and crush your head like the filthy bloodsucking tick you are."

Enraged, Ichabod charged holding the knife.

* * *

("Be Thou My Vision" by Kalafina, feat. Yuki Kajiura, instrumentals in "Celtic" style)

_Bi thusa mo shuile a ri mhor na nduil_

_Lion thusa mo bheatha, mo cheadfai's mo stuaim_

_Bi thusa i m'aigne gach oiche's gach la_

_Im chodladh no im dhuiseacht lion me le do gra_

_Bi thusa mo threoru i mbriathar is i mbeart_

_Fan thusa go deo liom is coinnigh me ceart_

_Glac curam mar athair is eist le mo ghui_

_Is tabhair domhsa ait conai istigh i do chroi_

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	12. Chapter 12

**An Ufotable Production**

_Bonnie, switch_!

*vreeng*

His eyes jolted open.

His/her hands firmly grasping Ichabod's shoulders, he/she kneed him in the groin and slipped out from his grasp.

Nobutaro fell back as his opponent advanced, in the process Ichabod being touched by the moonlight's familiar glare.

They eyed each other.

"What's this now? You seem like a different person than who you were a minute ago."

With Bonnie's lungs he said:

"I am the King of Hearts. And you, I take it, are the latest parasite to latch onto my town. I will show you no quarter. I will not negotiate. I will remove you promptly and without delay, and crush your head like the filthy bloodsucking tick you are."

Enraged, Ichabod charged holding the knife.

Nobutaro moved towards his opponent, but:

It turned out to be a feint and effort to build momentum. His/her body pivoted and he slid downwards and to the side.

And like that, he successfully tripped Ichabod. Who...

Fell on the knife he was holding, which lodged itself deep in his shoulder.

As he rolled around on the floor, Nobutaro wasted no time pouncing on top of him, removing the blade from where it was lodged, and proceeding to slice Ichabod's throat open.

After it was done, Nobutaro stood up.

That was ridiculously easy, he thought.

He took in his surroundings the best he could.

"Hey, Bonnie, just to be clear...that guy did deserve it...right?"

_Yes_.

"Was he the Stigmata Killer?"

_No, he was another copycat_.

"I see. So nothing's changed, on that front anyway."

On the other side Bonnie let out a sigh.

_It's been way too long, Tarokun_.

He was silent.

_Just to be clear though...I'm never giving you your body back_.

"H-Huh?!"

* * *

**Also Sprach Zarathustra: XII:** (False Title)** Prometheus**

* * *

_As soon as they entered the house, she could tell they were trouble. Tall, handsome, clad in the uniforms and insignia of the military of a certain troublesome country._

_"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"_

_She charged them with the blunt wooden end of a broom facing forward._

_But the man "Von Schroeder" caught it and knocked the old woman down._

_"Oy, are you the only person who lives here?" he asked._

_But then:_

_"Grandma? Are you okay?"_

_"Miklos, NO! Get away from here!" she called out, on the verge of tears._

_But it was too late. The boy was standing in the kitchen._

_And there was an awkward pause where the two men just stared at him for a good long while._

_"...What are you doing with my grandma?" he said at last._

_They looked at each other._

_Szegedy took the initiative of bending down and motioning._

_"Come here."_

_The boy Miklos was unsure. So Szegedy repeated himself._

_"Come here. Now."_

_He reluctantly approached the two men._

_(I, the author, have decided not to go into graphic detail about what follows. Needless to say, the boy is forced to perform lewd acts on the two men while the grandmother looks on with horror, unable to stop it from happening.)_

_The boy, who couldn't take any more of this, chomped down._

_Szegedy howled in pain, swore in the most foul Hungarian invectives in his vocabulary, pulled out his pistol and-_

_*BLAM*_

_The grandmother, screaming, dashed across the room and held her grandson's lifeless body in her arms._

_Realizing what they'd just done, Szegedy and Von Schroeder looked at each other again, uneasy._

_And then, the old Gypsy woman looked up at the two men._

_And gave them such a hate-filled look that curdled their blood and chilled their bones._

_She lunged at Szegedy, grabbed his shirt before he could respond, and made a slight rip in it._

_"I have seen your future!" she declared. "You will watch the other die! You will watch everyone you care about die! It will happen over and over and over again! You will never know rest from this accursed fate! I pronounce your very existence to be anathema before God!"_

_"Quit yer bellyaching ya old hag!" Szegedy said, annoyed._

_*BLAM*_

_And with that he shot her too._

* * *

**Tuesday, September 10, 1968**

"Bonnie, this is ridiculous," Nobutaro pleaded, getting Bonnie's person ready for school. "You're already skipping out on a day of work on my end and I'm not exactly flush with cash."

_Then I'll work. I've done it before, mind you_.

"You can't even speak Japanese! Even if you did, you know nothing of the kind of work I do."

_Then tell me_.

"No way. Just give me my body back now and I'll see if I can find a way to make things right with my boss and perhaps salvage my career."

_If I give you your body back, you'll just abandon me again_.

"I won't."

_I have no way to take your word for that. Even if I were to gauge your intentions now, those intentions might change as soon as you found yourself back in control. Like every person who's ever tried to bargain with God in a pinch_.

Nobutaro examined his/her self in the mirror to make sure he looked presentable and also to check for traces of blood on his face or in his hair.

_Still, color me very surprised that they actually let you out of that dungeon_.

"It comes with some caveats, though. I have to report my whereabouts to them for the rest of my life. But hey, at this point I'm going to complain about it. Anyways, if you're serious about this, then I don't want you going homeless. I've actually gained weight these past two years and I don't want you blowing that for me."

_Yeah, yeah. So what are my options, then_?

"I can help you through some brief interactions with Japanese speakers."

_Really? How's that? If you repeat a Japanese phrase to me it'll come through on my end as you speaking in English, no_?

"Normally you'd be correct, because the primary filter is intent behind language. But if I were to simply make sounds corresponding to words in Japanese, without thinking of the meaning of those sounds, it might come through on your end in original form. From there, you can simply repeat it to whoever you're talking to. However, it's going to be slow, too slow to hold a fast-paced conversation with a local. Also, for me to help you through this every minute of every day is way too much if I have things keeping me busy on this end. So you're going to have to find work somewhere they speak English at."

_So a US consulate or army base_.

"Something to that effect, yeah. Though, the key problem with the consulate route is that if you don't tell my people ahead of time, they'll think I'm trying to give them the slip and flee Japan. In that event they know where you, or rather, I now, live. If you try telling them, they'll most likely forbid you from changing careers. The only way out in that case would be to tell them that you're Bonnie."

_What might happen then_?

"I don't know. I think in truth it doesn't matter to them who controls my body so long as that person is cooperating fully with them. However, I know too much. That makes me a risk to them, if I'm living in America outside of their surveillance. We'll have to set some boundaries with them, make them understand that I told nobody except you about their existence, and that I will not tell anyone else."

_But doesn't Mr. Yuri already know_?

"I'd rather you not volunteer that tidbit of information to them, if you know what I mean."

_We're really doing this, then_.

"You don't have to. It's not too late."

_Yes, it is. Because it's clear that I can't trust you_.

What?

"Bonnie-

_Breakfast is waiting downstairs. I'd suggest you don't dawdle any longer_.

* * *

It felt strange being back here.

Nobutaro had already started his career but here he was, having just taken the bus to Bonnie's high school.

He felt just a little nostalgic as he took in the familiar smell of the hallways, probably from the distinct paint they'd applied to the walls long ago.

Throughout the day the thought occasional hit him:

He'd killed somebody just the night before. Not his first time, of course. But it'd been quite a while. And here he was, going to school like nothing was up. It felt surreal.

Bonnie told him where to go for his first class of the day. When he showed up, there was a black tophat sitting on the teacher's desk.

The teacher, Mr. Smollett, drummed his fingers against the desk as he waited for the last student to walk through the door.

Then he closed it.

"Alright. You should all know what today is. But in case you weren't paying attention: I will draw two names from the hat. The two of you will come forward and be handed the slip with the other's name. Then I'll call another two names, until everyone has been assigned a partner. There's an even number of students in this class so I don't anticipate that somebody will end up unassigned. Each pairing will comprise a team to put together an exhibit for the science fair in November. Now, this is not kiddie stuff anymore. I expect you all to perform research and have a sufficient understanding of the subject matter to withstand a quick bout of inquiry with yours truly. I will allow some leeway for unconventional projects with an alternate set-up, so long as it's well done to pass my standard. The team that impresses me the most will be treated to dinner by the faculty and their names and pictures will be given a special spot in the yearbook to commemorate their achievement."

Crickets.

"Also, the winning duo will receive thirty dollars each."

Yup, that did the trick.

"Alright, without any further ado, let's get started."

* * *

What the heck? Nobutaro thought, fuming. Why did I have to be paired with Jane, of all people?

He spotted Jane talking with her "mean girls" clique and walked over.

Jane looked very uncomfortable as her lifelong arch-enemy approached.

"...We need to figure out what our project's going to look like," Nobutaro blurt out. "We should schedule a time to meet up in the library."

"Not now," Jane said. "I'm busy. Go away."

He did. As he was leaving he could hear one of Jane's friends commenting on "Bonnie's weird accent".

My English is a little rusty, he realized.

* * *

On the other end, Bonnie wandered town trying to find something in English. She would've exactly looked like a "clueless foreigner" if not for the fact that she was in Tarokun's body. Because of time zone differences, whereas it was the middle of the day for Tarokun it was past midnight for her.

She wasn't too tired because she'd slept earlier, but nonetheless she realized this could be a problem moving forward. When Tarokun was living haphazardly in the "dungeon", he didn't care about day or night. But to function in Japanese society Bonnie would have to sleep at night and be active in the day, which would inevitably conflict with her desire to keep steady contact with Tarokun. In addition, their opposing sleep schedules would make it difficult to help each other out.

Ultimately, she would find a solution: she would teach English classes at a local university. The job she was applying for was an unusually lucrative "gig" but difficult to get because there were a lot of applicants for the position. However, she enjoyed the advantage of total and unadulterated fluency in the English language that few non-native speakers could match. In fact, in this line of work it was actually preferred that the teacher be unable to speak Japanese at all, which worked out pretty great for Bonnie.

She would teach from 6:50 AM to 1:20 PM, every day of the week, coinciding roughly with evening and night on Tarokun's end. He would normally only be awake for the initial part of this timespan. But then from 5 to 9 PM, or, roughly 7 to 11 AM on his end, they would would both be awake as he attended classes.

For 45 hours a week (plus the substantial amount of time she'd have to spend grading papers and planning lessons) she would make enough to fall into the "middle class" tier, or at least by the standards of Japanese society at this time. It'd be enough to support a family, even.

Not something she had any need of in this body, of course. And so, that money could be instead saved up, in order to one day take a little trip...a one way journey.

Her circumstance was no longer dictated by Tarokun's willingness or unwillingness. Once she had the money, she could just take a plane and go. No fuss, no issue.

It'd take maybe a few months, or half a year, or a little longer perhaps.

But she and Tarokun would finally be united in person. That she was certain of. After all, there was nothing he could do to stop her...

Right?

* * *

**Sunday, September 15, 1968**

"I'm home."

And with those words, Nobutaro got the chance to meet Jane's mother. Contrary to his expectations, she seemed gracious enough.

It was not an enormous house. But it was clearly bigger than Bonnie's. And more importantly, it was nicer. The kitchen top was made of granite and there was a large fireplace in the living room.

Nobutaro followed Jane upstairs to her room, passing by-

"I didn't know you had a brother," he said.

"What are you talking about? You saw us all together at the parent-teacher meeting just three weeks ago," Jane said.

"O-Oh. Is that right?" he responded apologetically.

Jane's room was about as girly as Nobutaro expected.

She closed the door and locked it.

It hit him: he was alone with this girl/woman, in a locked room. And that felt...

Meh. He wasn't particularly fond of Jane to begin with, but as Bonnie he was essentially incapable of the modes of desire his normal self sometimes felt. It was as though he'd been thoroughly neutered.

This is the default way a woman feels all of the time, he realized.

"So?" Jane began, interrupting his line of thought. "You said you already had it planned out?"

"Y-Yeah. So I was at the library, and I came across something unusual. Do you know what a computer is?"

"A what?" Jane responded with disdain.

"It's a kind of thinking machine."

"...You mean like a robot with emotions and personality?"

"No, not like that. It can perform mathematical calculations like a person could, except much faster. They have them at universities and government laboratories. They run on programs, which is a series of human-input commands that accomplish an end purpose. This one programmer, a British man named Alan Turing, wrote a program that allowed a computer to play a game of chess."

Jane blinked. "A robot can play chess?"

"Well, it doesn't have to be a computer. A computer would just be the player of this program. But a human could as well, if they know how to do the math. So what I was thinking is that we could write a much simpler chess program, one that we can use to play an 'automated' match against somebody at the science fair."

"That sounds awfully tedious," Jane said. "Whatever happened to doing a panel on bugs or geology?"

"That's childish stuff," Bonnie said. "You want to pass this, don't you?"

"I don't know, it'd mean I have to share a spot in the yearbook with you," Jane said wryly. "It'd be in there forever."

"We're not going to win."

"Eh?"

"Think about it," Nobutaro said. "This project will be expansive enough to get us a passing grade, if we do it right. But it lacks the depth of scientific research that Mr. Smollett is looking for. We're not going to get that spot in the yearbook. But that doesn't mean we have to get a failing grade either."

Jane had to concede Bonnie had a point, if not out loud.

"Does your house have a chess set lying around?" Nobutaro asked.

As it turned out, there was one such.

This is pretty nice, he thought, examining it.

"Okay. This will definitely work. Now, see here. The board is organized along a grid. Up is numbers, from one to eight. Sideways is letters, from A to H."

He explained the concept to Jane.

"For programming purposes it is very important for us to know what each tile's number and letter is. Here, I'll draw up a chart to reference."

And so he drew up a 64-tile board which each tile notated.

"Hey!" Jane protested as he used tape to stick it to her bedroom wall.

"Alright," he said. "Now help me put the pieces on the board. They all have a proper place."

"I-I know that much!" she said. "Pawns are all on row two, rooks on both ends of row one, and then...bishops next to them?"

"Nope, knights. But you were close."

After that was done:

"So how is this going to work?" Jane asked. "What exactly are we going to do?"

"Hold on," Nobutaro said. "There's one more step before we can begin. We have to label the pieces."

"Huh?"

"As the game progresses the pieces will be moving from place to place. So the program has to remember which piece is which even as the board layout constantly changes. There's two sides, black and white. And two of every piece except king, queen, and pawn..."

Is she...speaking with an accent? Jane wondered.

Nobutaro snapped his/her fingers in Jane's face. "Hello? You still with me?"

Jane's response showed she was clearly annoyed.

"Don't space out on me," he said. "We have work to do here."

From then on Nobutaro regularly came over to Jane's house so that they could work on the program.

* * *

**Saturday, September 21, 1968**

"Bonnie...Have you practiced so little in the past two weeks that you've actually gotten worse?" Yuri said, ticked off.

"I'm Tarokun."

Yuri blinked. "Oh. Yeah. That's right. My bad."

He stood up. "Well, this is a waste of time then. You haven't played in what, two years?"

"More or less."

"I see...How've you been? These past two years."

"Pretty good. I was starting to make a life for myself."

Until Bonnie jettisoned my career, he thought sullenly.

_Well excuse me for jettisoning your precious career as a door to door salesman_.

"I was an insurance agent," he corrected.

_I still think I'm doing you a favor_.

"How so? I was making good money doing that!"

Yuri smiled. Of course he couldn't hear what Bonnie was saying on the other end, but this felt good. They were all here. Able to pick up where they left off, even.

* * *

**Tuesday, September 24, 1968**

"Alright, looks like we got some good work in today," Nobutaro said. "Let's review what we've got so far."

He sat up off the wooden floor and grimaced as he felt a crick in his/her neck.

"Coin flip for white. If computer is black: first move is contingent upon player's move. If player moves PA1 or PA8 two spaces forward on opening move then 'rook offensive' is assumed. If PA1 then we go with PA5 advances one space to e6. If PA8 then PA4 advances to d6. Otherwise, we'll assume an offensive either by a pawn, bishop, or queen. We'll assume the natural tendency of people is to avoid doing anything with the pawn in front of their king at the start of the game, so if their first move is PA3 then they're probably gonna go with fielding their queen, signifying an aggressive style of play. Let's see..."

He went over the two pages, one for strategy notes and the other for the program itself.

Jane yawned. "A show I like to watch is starting soon. Can we be done for the day?"

You mean, can _I_ be done, Nobutaro thought with disdain, cognizant that Jane hadn't exactly been pulling her weight so far.

"Okay," he said. "But I'm going to leave these here."

And with that he left.

...

Jane got up and was about to head downstairs.

But she stopped. And turned back around. She looked down at the chessboard.

She needed to put it up first.

That having been said...

She went through the program and notes, and examined the wooden pieces.

"Chess, huh."

She sat back down and spent the next three minutes staring at the board, visualizing moves. Just a casual, no pressure affair in her head, without the rigors of a program that had to take into account everything. How she would move first, how her opponent might respond, and what she'd do after that.

And in those three minutes she had an epiphany:

Chess might actually be fun to play. If only she had someone to play it with.

* * *

**Wednesday, October 2, 1968**

The annual carnival was in town. Gordy wanted to go, and "Bonnie" came with him.

They each had enough tickets to do four things.

"That's not a whole lot," Gordy noted glumly. "We should choose carefully."

They looked around. The fair had a "spinning teacup", a carousel, a hall of mirrors, a haunted house attraction, a (modest) wooden rollercoaster, a bull-riding spectacle held once every hour, and a large number of stalls.

Nobutaro reached into his/her dress pocket and took out-

"Where'd you get that?" Gordy said.

"Jane gave it to me," he answered, tossing the green apple flavored bubble gum into his mouth. "She's got a tin can full of them in her room."

"Oh? You two are getting along now?"

"Well, I guess she thought it'd be rude to not offer one to me when she grabbed one for herself," Nobutaro said. "I'm starting to think she's not as terrible as I've always thought."

"Ooh?"

"B-But don't tell anybody I said that."

"Hmm. I think I'm gonna ride the roller coaster first," Gordy said.

"Alright. I'm gonna check out the haunted house. I heard a rumor they have a clown that jumps out at you."

And so, they went their separate ways.

He went to the back of the line.

"Bonnie? What a surprise to see you here."

It was Cal (from episode 6, the athlete guy who seemingly had a crush on Bonnie and then helped raise the money for Tarokun's plane ticket). But for a couple of seconds there Nobutaro didn't recognize him.

"Are you here by yourself?" Cal asked.

"N-No. My brother's riding the roller coaster."

"I see. Wanna go in together?"

Given what'd happened then, Nobutaro felt more than a little obliged. So...

* * *

They stepped through the flaps into the pitch black room.

"OO-OOOOHH..."

Because of course they would have stereotypical ghost noises playing in the background.

Nobutaro folded his arms. This was what he'd always hated about being Bonnie: being in places that felt much too cold.

Mmm.

"Here."

Cal put his jacket around "Bonnie".

"Thanks, it does seem a bit chilly, huh," Nobutaro replied lamely.

It was warm. Because Cal had been wearing it.

They walked over what felt like a ground sensor for an automatic door at a supermarket. And-

A spotlight turned on and a ghost rushed them.

Or, rather, a cardboard cut-out of such.

Cal laughed. "That almost had me."

Nobutaro realized that he'd reached instinctively for where he'd kept the knife on Bonnie's person.

"If you get scared you can hold my hand," Cal said all of the sudden.

Real smooth buddy, Nobutaro thought sarcastically.

And then, on the other end-

A snicker?

_Cal's making his move on you, looks like_.

He didn't respond because he was standing too close to Cal.

How do women put up with this, he thought.

_You're looking at this wrong. You're socialized to be grossed out by this so you still are even in my body. But for me, who would not only lack such inhibition but even be taught to take this positively, it's not so bad, so long as I have no reservations about the guy in question. And it can do wonders for your self-esteem, knowing you're attractive enough that people are asking you out_.

"I see. So that's why, two years ago, you were like..."

"Huh?" Cal said.

"Nothing."

"...You've always been like that. From what I heard, since kindergarten. I wonder...did Tarokun really exist? Or was he just an imaginary friend?"

Cal, obviously, was unaware that he was currently speaking to Tarokun.

"What do you think? Would I have taken all that money, tried to buy a plane ticket, for a guy who wasn't real?"

"Then how come he never materialized?" Cal asked. "I mean, two years ago I expected him to come. Why didn't he?"

Nobutaro sighed. "I'm gonna need a drink."

"Huh?"

"Come on, let's get out of here. This 'haunted house' isn't really my thing anyways."

"I at least wanted to see the clown though," Cal protested.

"Hehehehehe!"

And with that, a cutout of a creepy fanged clown popped up.

"There you go," Nobutaro said with a tinge of disappointment.

"R-Right..."

* * *

They made their rounds through the carnival stalls. They threw darts at balloons. Cal struck a platform with a wooden mallet in an attempt to make a projectile fly high enough to hit a bell. There was a miniature bowling alley and a...

"Square dancing?" Nobutaro said out loud.

The music (a guy holding a fiddle) started up. Cal grabbed "Bonnie's" hand and ran into the circle.

The floor was dirt but there was hay all over. Some couples had come prepared for the event, dressed in stereotypical "country" outfits, such as cowboy hats and boots, and overalls and dresses.

Nobutaro, who didn't know how to dance, reluctantly had to let Cal take the lead.

One hour later...

They walked away from the dance floor, laughing.

"We should do that more often," Nobutaro said.

"Really? You'd like that?"

Nobutaro paused.

"...What am I doing?" he said out loud.

"Huh? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, it's not you. I'm..."

He sighed. "Well, we had a good time so I guess that's what counts."

"There you are!"

Gordy ran up to them.

"Bonnie where've you been? I've been looking everywhere."

"S-Sorry. Do you still have any tickets left?"

"Yeah. I didn't get a chance to spend them."

Cal quietly left the group, not wanting to stand in their way.

"Is there something you want to do?" Nobutaro asked.

"No, not really."

Nobutaro shrugged. "Alright then. If you're not going to spend them, I think there's one last thing I'd like to do. Wanna do it together?"

* * *

They ducked when stepping into the low tent.

"Weeelcome," the middle-aged woman in a fake foreign accent said. "I am Madame Ivanova. I will read your fortune for one ticket. Who wants to go first?"

Gordy went first.

"Hold out your palm, dear."

Gordy did so.

Madame Ivanova grasped it and was silent for a long while, as though deep in thought.

Gordy sat there awkwardly, waiting for the woman to say something.

Finally, she let go. And motioned to "Bonnie".

"Your turn now."

"But what about my fortune?" Gordy protested.

"Please wait outside a moment," the woman ordered.

Gordy did as he was told.

Nobutaro stuck out his palm and let her do her "work".

"...It's as I feared," the woman said, dead serious. "The two of you, your fates are tied together."

"Huh?"

"...Wait, no...The three of you. Hey, girl on the other side. I'm talking to you."

_M-Me_? Bonnie realized from the other side of the world.

"Yeah, you. The boy out there. He's your brother, right? And the person in your body right now is...your brother also?"

Nobutaro was starting to freak out now. He jerked back his hand and stood up.

"Don't go! You are in mortal danger! Both of you! You have to listen to me very caref-"

"This was a mistake. Goodbye."

"...Wait."

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Thursday, October 3, 1968**

"A recurring theme in history has been the dichotomy between thalassocratic, or sea, powers and great land empires. Oftentimes even a small country that gains maritime dominance can accrue disproportionately large sums of wealth and influence. The reason for this is simple. Historically travel by sea has been much easier than travel by land, giving a distinct economic advantage to countries bordering the ocean and harshly penalizing landlocked societies. These were merchant-based economies, more sophisticated than agricultural ones. They specialized in trading goods and serving as middlemen between producers and consumers..."

The teacher continued to drone on.

_I wouldn't put too much stock in what that woman said_.

"I don't know..."

_A-Anyways, it seems you had fun with Cal last night_.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he blurted out defensively.

"Bonnie?" the teacher said.

"S-Sorry. My bad."

This'd happened before. So long as Bonnie shut up for the rest of the lesson after being called out on it, the teachers had learned by now to let her odd behavior slide. And so the teacher's eyes returned to the drawing board.

* * *

"Bonnie, what's with you today?" Jane asked at last. "You've been distracted."

"Oh. Well, my bad. I, um, I'm just not feeling right today. Let's uh, pick this up tomorrow."

And with that, Nobutaro left and headed home.

And he climbed onto the trampoline. Something he hadn't done in a very long time.

He lied down and looked up at the sky.

"...Come on. You've got to switch back with me. I'm not even kidding. This is starting to get out of hand."

There'd been daydreams about Cal all day long, even one that wasn't quite so tame.

"I'm feeling this way because I'm you," he said. "But I'm not you. I'm a man. This is..."

Completely unnatural.

_I'm not going to switch back with you. And you know perfectly well why not. Find some way to deal with this. The easiest way is to tell Cal straight up you're not interested in him. You keep your distance, and the emotional roller coaster you're on will go away eventually_.

"...And I suppose that's why you've spent the past two years acting like me, like a man in a woman's body, because that was the closest thing you had to me being here with you? What bullcrap."

_W-Who told you that_?

"I pieced it together. And, well, Jane. More to the point, you're holding me to a standard that you wouldn't hold yourself to."

_Because you're not Cal, dang it! You're you. You're Tarokun, and I'm not letting you go! Why are you fighting me_?

He gritted his teeth. "Bonnie...This is why I didn't want to come back."

Because they were both still fixated on an idea that was forbidden.

But he quickly realized saying that was a mistake. Because on the other end, Bonnie was redfaced and upset.

"Bonnie, come on-

But she disconnected.

* * *

She would be back. He knew it. At least, if she wanted to be done she would switch back with him.

She wouldn't strand him here forever.

For now, he just needed to wait for her to cool off a bit.

"Might as well get a head start on that exam."

But about a half-hour later-

Gordy barged into her room.

"Bonnie, you gotta see this!"

* * *

"Welcome back to, 'To Catch a Homophile', with your host, Christopher Jansen. Today we're on scene at our undercover sting house in Wichita, Kansas, where a slew of men have driven up and made their way inside, hoping to have sex with another man."

The man caught on camera stepping out of the car was none other than Tom. Tom stepped inside and said:

"Anybody home?"

From the other room came the reply "Just a minute my cat vomited on the carpet you can just wait in the kitchen a minute."

Tom sat down. Three seconds later, Christopher Jansen stepped out from behind a curtain.

"Good evening. And what might I suppose you're doing here?"

"What the...you're not a twenty year old!" Tom protested.

"I'm going to ask you to keep your hands out of your pockets. Okay?"

Tom complied.

"Alright. Now, I have in my hand the chat log of your conversations with 'Kyle'. Let's go over them real quick. You say here, 'I want to grab you in the *blankety blank* and *blank* you so hard until you *blank*.' Now, that doesn't sound like something a man normally says to another man."

"Nah bruh we were just gonna chill and stuff," Tom said.

"That's not what it says here."

Nobutaro and Gordy both watched the screen in shock.

"...It's over," Gordy muttered, incredulous. "Its finally over. Tom's going to prison and I..."

He got the chills all over.

"I'm... I'm FREE! Woohoo!"

He jumped up and down in the living room, ran around, leapt onto the couch and made a loud ruckus.

Over coming days, the entire local YMCA operation would be dismantled as Tom quickly ratted out his colleagues to get himself a lighter sentence. He would serve three and a half years in prison.

* * *

**Wednesday, October 23, 1968**

Gay neatly folded the papers and put them on the desk next to the rest.

"And...done," he said.

Kevin had treated him lately to several favors so when the younger man asked him to fill in for him tonight so he could go home early and catch a rerun of _Roman Holiday_, Gay couldn't refuse.

But at last the work was done. Gay clocked out and-

*reeeeeng*

It was coming from his desk. He walked over and picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Uncle Gay?"

It was Patricia. His seventeen year old niece.

"Oh hey Patty."

"Sorry. I called your home phone but there was no answer, so I thought to call here instead."

"Well I'm just about to call it quits for the night so good timing. Whatcha need?"

"Well you see, Sam Jr. is crying and Sam's out. His shift doesn't end until tomorrow evening. So it's just me and the baby. I was wondering if you could go pick me up some formula milk, because I'm out. Oh, and some diapers if you don't mind. I'll pay you back as soon as you get here."

"Will do. See you in a few."

"Bye."

He hung up.

Gay had lived his life alone, but he'd always made a point to be as involved an uncle as he could be.

"Formula and diapers, let's see...the only place open that'd have those would be, oh yeah. Melvin's General Superstore."

That was in Wichita proper. And somewhat of a long drive. But he'd told Patricia he was going to do it, so...

Little did he know this was going to be the fateful night that defined his entire life.

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Thursday, October 24, 1968**

Now this was just a sad day to get out of bad.

Nobutaro couldn't get a wink of sleep last night. He was thinking about the program. The longer it went on, the more and more information they had to fill out. Each move branched off into more possibilities. There was no way they could write a program that covered every possible contingency. Such a project was just too overwhelming in scope for two people. In truth, they did it wrong. That was not how a program worked. It was supposed to involve a level of advanced math Nobutaro simply had no ability in, so he tried to work with an inferior method that was ultimately undoable.

So where did that leave them? Were they just going to have to abandon the project? Find something else to write do it on? Did they have time?

The more he thought about it, the more the answer seemed to be "Yes". Indeed, that was probably the smart move. But how would he tell Jane that everything they'd worked for was for nothing?

They heard something shatter downstairs.

Or, rather, that was what woke him up just now. What was that sound? What time was it?

He got up and went downstairs without bothering to get out of his/her pajamas.

Chad was just staring blank-faced at the newspaper. A black puddle was forming at his feet. What he'd seen in today's paper was apparently enough to shock him to his core. He looked up, saw her, and handed her the paper so she could see it herself.

The newspaper headline was as following:

**STIGGIE ARRESTED, ENDING DECADE LONG MANHUNT**

...

...

It was over. The butcher of Wichita was behind bars. He would face justice. He would make no more victims.

And.

That.

Was.

Just.

So.

Fricking.

Awesome.

"YES! YES! WOOHOO YES!"

Overwhelmed, Chad raised his arms well above his head and then grabbed his wife and daughter, embracing them in a tight bear hug.

And he broke down, filled with relief after living like a man in a trance for so long. He could quit. He could just freaking quit now. Find something else to do with the remainder of his working years. Anything. He would make sure to always get home on time, to be there for his family, to enjoy dinner with family and friends. He was no longer the broken, hopeless man that he was when he woke up just a couple of minutes ago.

The Carwrights were a family again, and it seemed like all was well in the world.

* * *

_Later that day, I told Jane the truth. I apologized sincerely for letting her down. I expected her to be angry._

_But to my surprise, she understood, having figured out herself that our endeavor was unsustainable. We decided to focus our energies instead on something much more modest._

_And when the science fair finally came, we both made a passing grade. But more importantly, we now had each other's respect and friendship. Perhaps in a way it was merely a facade. The real Bonnie still wanted little to do with Jane. And so I wondered what would become of that after me and Bonnie one day switched back._

_Anyway, after the science fair came Thanksgiving break. Aunt Kathy came for the holiday. Kevin and Mr. Callaghan both made a surprise appearance as well. The men played a round of football in the front yard, and cooked a turkey. We went to see a movie._

_And then, school started back up, entering its last leg of the semester. December came._

_And then, finally, it was Christmas was almost upon us all_.

* * *

**Tuesday, December 24, 1968**

His eyes felt heavy. His head was raging.

He crawled out of bed and stumbled forwards.

"Good morning Bonnie."

No answer. Because she was...

Already fast asleep.

"Oh that's right."

Bonnie hit the sack early because she spent all day (on her end) grading final exam papers. In her own words, most of her students were terrible and couldn't correctly pronounce a word in English to save their lives. She was confident that about half of them would fail outright and most of those remaining would get by either on a D, or a C if they were lucky. She had little sympathy for them because she noted that Tarokun learned English from scratch as a child, and so she failed to see why these adults couldn't do it.

I must be feeling some of her tiredness, he thought.

And then he remembered that it was Christmas eve.

He dressed, went downstairs and poured himself a cup from the large spherical glass of coffee.

_Putting some sugar and creamer in that, I see_.

Oh. Bonnie. She was awake now.

"So what? It tastes better this way."

_You better not get me fat. I've put good work into maintaining a slender figure_.

"If you care so much, switch back with me now. I've been trapped as you for three and a half months. I've seen and...felt things I very much wish I hadn't."

Bonnie laughed.

"Seriously though, I'm not going to run. That was a cowardly way for me to react to the situation then. I know I can't...have you, and you know likewise. But for most of the time that we've known each other that wasn't a consideration at all."

_...Do you really mean it, Tarokun_?

"Yeah," he said seriously. "I won't leave you again. Not unless you want me to. And that's a promise. Now switch back with me, please."

She sighed.

_I'll consider it. After Christmas_.

Fair enough, he thought happily.

_So, you're learning to drive now_?

"That's a very charitable way to put it," he said. "Dad's just about ready to have a heart attack."

He continued:

"It wasn't all my fault, though. This one time the other day the brakes almost didn't work."

_Ugh. That car has so many problems. It needs a good old fashioned trip to the mechanic shop. Or better yet, it should go to the scrapyard_.

Gordy ran downstairs.

"Hey Bonnie!" he said excitedly. "Guess what! Guess what!"

"What?"

"I finished writing my story last night."

_I'm going back to bed_.

"Your story?"

"Well yeah. I told you about it like a million times. Sheesh. Anyway come read."

He followed him upstairs to his room and took a look at it.

"Stalvart son of Mylor, a warrior from 7,000 years ago who was preserved on ice, dethaws in the modern world 15 years after his arch-nemesis, the warlord Tradaxus, responsible for crimes of genocide against tens of thousands of neanderthals who sought to coexist peacefully alongside humans. Tradaxus uses his natural ambition and charisma to become a prominent political figure in present day America, and conspires to become a dictator and start World War Three."

"That's just the summary," Gordy said.

Nobutaro flipped through the pages.

"This is, uh, quite a long read from the looks of it," he said. "How many pages is it?"

"Almost one hundred," Gordy said proudly.

"So how does the bad guy know english?" Nobutaro asked.

"Huh?"

"Yeah. He's got just fifteen years to go from a person without citizenship or any knowledge of the modern world whatsoever to becoming a governor or congressman or whatever. How would he pull this off? Wouldn't he need to make campaign speeches in perfect English? If he spoke like a caveman wouldn't people just think he was stupid and not vote for him?"

"Ah dang it I knew there was something!" Gordy blurted out. "You did this last time too."

There was a last time? Nobutaro thought.

"...But what do you think? I think I'm getting better. I'm not 'there' yet, but at this rate by the time I'm an adult I'll be able to write something good. Also, I was thinking about recent events and...Bonnie, I've changed my mind."

"Huh?"

"You remember what I told you last year? I'm starting to think that won't be necessary. To make plans to radically change my life in that way. I can just be me. After all...I didn't consent to any of it, right?"

Nobutaro had a blank expression on his face as he had no idea what this was about.

But then:

"Wait is this about the YMCA?"

"Yes, sheesh!" Gordy said. "Have you really forgotten?"

I'm not Bonnie, Nobutaro thought apologetically.

* * *

Chad came home at 1 today, having returned to his old job at a Coca-Cola bottling factory in the area (one that he held between returning home from WWII and being called back into active duty for the stint that he served in occupied Japan; it was during this intermediate period that he married Stacey).

"What are you doing home so early, dear?" Stacey asked.

"I sent everybody home," he said. "It's Christmas eve. They should spend the day with their families."

He grinned. "Also, I've been meaning to take you all somewhere."

"Where?" Gordy asked.

"We're gonna see Christmas lights. We'll leave at 5. It'll be nice and dark by then."

* * *

They all had a blast. Houses all over Wichita were elaborately decorated with colorful lights and cardboard cutouts of cartoon characters. By far the most impressive was the drive-through coordinated light show on a lake, timed with Christmas music playing on the pirate radio station recommended to passerbys.

Chad didn't feel comfortable taking the family in his own car due to ongoing issues so they took Stacey's.

Soon they arrived home and:

Chad went through the newfangled answering machine and checked for any new messages.

There was one.

*beep*

"Hey Chad, it's Gay. Um, I don't know how to tell you this, given what happened to your former partner back in the day, but Kevin's in the hospital. They say it's pneumonia."

Chad was starting to get deja vu.

"Why'd it have to be Christmas eve," he muttered. "Stacey, I'm going out! Kevin's been hospitalized and I need to be there for him."

He went out to his car, got in, and started it.

Then "Bonnie" and Gordy came outside.

"Can we come too?" Nobutaro asked.

Forgetting momentarily about the issues his car had, Chad shrugged. "Sure. Get in."

* * *

**Nine Years Before Present**

"The visit was a long one," he said. "Dad stayed and talked with Kevin for a good while. Turned out it probably wasn't serious. Kevin wasn't as young as he used to be, but he was still in good health. The doctors were confident he'd recover soon. And yet, dad was spooked. He'd lost somebody to this before. They had a long discussion about life, about Kevin's prolonged bachelor status. They joked a bit, and..."

He shook his head. "That's not important."

Vermouth continued to listen attentively.

"It happened when we were coming back," he continued. "It was very late, and dad was eager to get home. He, well, I guess he forgot to drive slowly. By the time he remembered..."

_"What the...? The brakes won't work!_"

"He pressed down hard as he could, but nothing happened. We were nearing the bridge past Trenton Avenue. And dad was really starting to panic. He lost control, and the car swerved right. Hard right. We...smashed through the railing and began our rapid plunge off the side of the bridge."

He continued:

"I thought to myself, 'This is it'. This is the night I die. Christmas Eve, 1968. I considered calling out to Bonnie. I had nothing to lose, now that we were about to be killed. But I figured she probably was distracted. And that was good. She didn't need to see this. I knew she would be heartbroken either way. Because it wasn't just me. Beside her mother she was going to lose everyone in one fell swoop. But she would live. For me, that's what mattered."

His hand vibrated furiously, like a phone. And the tremors spread up his arm, past his shoulder, and to the rest of his body. He hyperventilated.

Vermouth placed her hands on him and tried to calm him down, not knowing what to do.

His eyes betrayed the deep fear and trauma of remembering. He gritted his teeth.

"And then it happened. Out of nowhere. Maybe two seconds before we hit the water."

_"TAROKUN, SWITCH__!_"

"Her hand grabbed me by the back and pulled me from death's jaws. I was returned to my body in one disorienting moment, as I'd begged of her so many times. And she took my place."

"_I love you Tarokun._"

Grief gave way to...rage? Vermouth didn't know what to make of this.

"I watched Bonnie die. I felt the impact as she felt it. I felt her body destroyed, the life of such a brave young woman instantaneously robbed from this earth as her neck snapped and her head busted wide open from glass shrapnel flying into her face. I felt my dad and little brother die much the same way."

At last, the old man Nobutaro stood up, and rested his arm against the wooden pew in front of him to support his weight. His energy was spent. His story was finished. He just wanted to go and leave this place behind.

Vermouth got up too.

"Thanks for coming," he said. "It meant a lot to me."

She nodded.

"...There is one more thing I should probably tell you. In about a month or so, I'm going to disappear."

"Huh?"

"Should I succeed, the Organization will assume my death. You are to do nothing to question that assumption."

"Where are you going? And why?" she asked.

"That's not for you to know. I have lots of unfinished business, and I can't do it with the Men in Black breathing down my neck."

"...I see. It was a pleasure knowing you, then."

The reverend swung back around.

"_Are you two all finished?_" she asked.

Vermouth nodded. "_We're thankful for your patience. My father-in-law and I will be on our way now._"

"_It's no problem at all. I hope he was able to find the closure he was looking for._"

Vermouth took his arm and helped him walk upright.

They made their way toward the lobby area. The Reverend opened the door for them, and they stepped out into the light...

* * *

_Bi thusa mo shuile __a ri mhor na nduil_...

* * *

...

...

...

...

...

Hold on.

Something wasn't right.

What was it? Could he quite put his finger on it?

The story he just told. It was as though he omitted some important detail.

No. More like:

Its conclusion was a boldfaced lie.

Did he tell a lie to Fusae? Or, rather, to himself? It'd been so long since he told the truth.

He made a promise, on that night of Christmas Eve, 1968. Not a verbal promise, but an understanding. An understanding that he would never even think about what really happened, but rather, to delude himself with an easier to swallow myth.

But he'd come all of this way. And given an account to another person that was so close to the truth.

So he might as well...right?

Not to Fusae. Not to anyone. But to himself. For once in his sad life, he could at least be honest with himself.

About who really died.

* * *

**Also Sprach Zarathustra: XII: **(True Title)** Serpent**

* * *

**Monday, September 9, 1968**

Bonnie,_ switch_!

*vreeng*

His eyes jolted open.

His/her hands firmly grasping Ichabod's shoulders, he/she kneed him in the groin and slipped out from his grasp.

Nobutaro fell back as his opponent advanced, in the process Ichabod being touched by the moonlight's familiar glare.

They eyed each other.

"What's this now? You seem like a different person than who you were a minute ago."

With Bonnie's lungs he said:

"I am the King of Hearts. And you, I take it, are the latest parasite to latch onto my town. I will show you no quarter. I will not negotiate. I will remove you promptly and without delay, and crush your head like the filthy bloodsucking tick you are."

Enraged, Ichabod charged holding the knife.

Nobutaro moved towards his opponent, but:

It turned out to be a feint and effort to build momentum. His/her body pivoted and he slid downwards and to the side.

And like that, he successfully tripped Ichabod. Who...

Fell on the knife he was holding, which lodged itself deep in his shoulder.

As he rolled around on the floor, Nobutaro wasted no time pouncing on top of him, removing the blade from where it was lodged, and proceeding to slice Ichabod's throat open.

After it was done, Nobutaro stood up.

That was ridiculously easy, he thought.

He took in his surroundings the best he could.

"Hey, Bonnie, just to be clear...that guy did deserve it...right?"

* * *

_In truth, she didn't answer that question right away. Because she was still in shock. In what had to have been a blur of maybe a minute's time I suddenly came back, and was then thrust into mortal danger right before her eyes. And then I killed another person as she watched. It was a wild roller coaster of emotion that no person could be expected to fully process in so little time. And so, I waited a moment before repeating my question._

_And as she scrambled to answer the question she struggled to regain her composure. Because above all, she did not want to sound desperate._

_Silly girl._

_Silly, silly girl._

_What did she think was going to happen that night? The second she gave chase to the third Stiggie copycat, it became predetermined that night that somebody would die. Either this random homicidal stranger, her...or Tarokun._

_She did it anyway. She needlessly turned herself into a typical "damsel in distress", and of course the man in her life was bound to throw himself into harm's way on her behalf. But in the end, her little gambit paid off._

_Somebody like her, who waged high stake bets, all or nothing...she could've cleaned out any casino in the world. I'm sure of it. Because that night she won big. She won back something more precious to her than money: me._

_I was her pearl of great price, her errant lamb. For two years I was lost to her. And she risked everything to find me, to bring me back. I would hope that by now no explanation is needed as to why she would do that._

_Thinking back on then, I feel like I have to be the luckiest guy in the world._

_But then I consider that it's not true. In fact, the complete opposite is the case._

* * *

**Saturday, September 14, 1968**

He stumbled out of bed, more than a little groggy...

And then tripped on the white nightgown this body was wearing.

His forehead pressed to the wooden floor, he lied there in peace for a second, not wanting to get up.

Five consecutive days as Bonnie, he thought disdainfully. What joy.

He got up.

"Hey. Are you still taking lessons with Mr. Yuri?"

_Huh? You talked to him that night. He took you home_.

"Yeah, but that's not what I'm asking. Piano lessons. Are you still doing it?"

_Yeah. But not today. He said he has business out of town to take care of_.

"I see. So that means I can go back to bed?"

_Come on. Why would you want to do that? It's a beautiful day ou_-

*sound of thunder, and then rainpour*

_...I take that back_.

He sighed. "Since I'm up I guess I'll get us caught up on homework."

He blinked dramatically, as though he'd realized something all of the sudden.

_What is it_?

"All of these years and we never thought to use my powers to cheat?"

_Huh_?

"I mean, think about it," he explained. "I could've read the teacher's mind on tests and figured out all of the answers. You could've gotten a one hundred on every test you ever took."

Bonnie chuckled.

Did I say something wrong? Nobutaro thought.

_That's quite true. We easily could've gotten away with that. But since we've done it the right way all of this time let's not start now, okay_?

"Yeah. I-I wasn't saying we should actually do it now. It was just a thought, ya know."

It was a lazy Saturday morning but Tarokun got a lot done schoolwise.

Of course, that certain matter still loomed over the horizon: his project with Jane.

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Sunday, September 15, 1968**

"It is said that where two or three are gathered in His name, there He is among them..."

Chad just didn't bother showing up today, leaving his wife and two kids sitting awkwardly in the back, where they hoped nobody would notice.

_As I'm sure you've noticed by now, not all has been fine and dandy ever since you left_, Bonnie said.

I hardly see how this is my fault, he thought. "By the way, who is that?"

_Hmm? Oh, I guess you wouldn't know about that. Rev. Bauer is dead_.

"...What?"

_Yeah. He committed suicide. We all went to his funeral. Remember Mrs. Daphne?_

Nobutaro shuddered. "Y-Yeah. What about her?"

_The Reverend was her brother. As it turned out, he had a swastika tattoo on his butt. The coroner blabbed and now everybody knows_.

"...Which meant the rumors about her were probably true as well."

_My thought exactly_.

There was a pause.

"So who is his replacement?"

_That'd be Reverend McInnes. He came from Scotland but he was invited to come serve here_.

"Oh?"

Bonnie's mother, not in the best mood, swatted her "daughter" on the back of the head.

"Quit talking to yourself in church," she scolded.

"Sorry."

"You know better than this. Sheesh."

* * *

**Wednesday, October 2, 1968**

They ducked when stepping into the low tent.

"Weeelcome," the middle-aged woman in a fake foreign accent said. "I am Madame Ivanova. I will read your fortune for one ticket. Who wants to go first?"

Gordy went first.

"Hold out your palm, dear."

Gordy did so.

Madame Ivanova grasped it and was silent for a long while, as though deep in thought.

Gordy sat there awkwardly, waiting for the woman to say something.

Finally, she let go. And motioned to "Bonnie".

"Your turn now."

"But what about my fortune?" Gordy protested.

"Please wait outside a moment," the woman ordered.

Gordy did as he was told.

Nobutaro stuck out his palm and let her do her "work".

"...It's as I feared," the woman said, dead serious. "The two of you, your fates are tied together."

"Huh?"

"...Wait, no...The three of you. Hey, girl on the other side. I'm talking to you."

_M-Me_? Bonnie realized from the other side of the world.

"Yeah, you. The boy out there. He's your brother, right? And the person in your body right now is...your brother also?"

Nobutaro was starting to freak out now. He jerked back his hand and stood up.

"Don't go! You are in mortal danger! Both of you! You have to listen to me very caref-"

"This was a mistake. Goodbye."

"...Wait. Have you had dreams?"

Nobutaro stopped in his tracks. And turned around.

"Dreams?" he said with a forced scoff.

"About a boy. You know which one. The one with...eyes of a fawn."

He was conflicted. On one hand, he wanted nothing more than to get out of here. But on the other, he wanted to know more.

"Miklos, I believe his name was?" Madame Ivanova said, puzzled. "He is the source of your shared misery, no?"

"...Who are you?"

"Kid, listen to me. I've been doing this for a long time...and so have you, I see."

Their eyes were locked in that moment. As if two alike souls had found each other after a lifetime of futile speculation.

"I am not who you're looking for," she said at last. "You and I have no connection. Our meeting is, so far as I can tell, a matter of sheer coincidence...Ah. You want to change the world, I see. And that is...a commendable, noble dream you have. I wish you the best of luck. But first, there's something else you need to take care of. Because if you should fail in your dream, who knows when you'll get another chance?"

_C-Chance_?

"To make things right," she said. "Listen to me. The two of you are under a curse. An existential curse which, if not addressed, will go on and on. The two of you were never meant to shoulder this burden, of suffering together until the end of time. Like any two peoples brought together in life by chance or circumstance, you must part ways upon death. That's always the way it works. There is no such thing as a truly insoluble bond between men. All suggestions to the contrary are the product of hubris and delusional thinking. There's only One Thing that lasts eternally, and it's not something we human beings create."

She continued:

"As for what you must do, you must find the grandmother."

"Huh?"

"You know who I'm talking about. The woman who placed the curse on you, on account of what the two of you did to the boy. I'm not going to judge. You're obviously not the same people today who were responsible for that heinous act back then. But in any event, you must find her. She's somebody else now, somewhere on earth. It's not enough simply that you find the person she is today. That person will be in no position to forgive you, as they wouldn't even remember what happened. You have to bring her back. Or, at least, her memories. The only person who can forgive you and lift the curse is someone who understands, from experience, the context in which the curse was placed."

She continued:

"I am not going to mince words here. You only have one shot at this. At least one of you has to live long enough to set things right. And yet, your lives are in mortal danger. A storm is blowing your way, or so to speak. The details are unclear to me at this time. But, if I can gather anything else, I'll be sure to call you immediately. For that, I'll need your home phone number."

Nobutaro gave it, and parted ways with her, feeling deeply apprehensive.

But the soothsayer would never call him. Because that night, Madam Ivanova became the Stigmata Killer's eighth victim.

* * *

**The Next Day**

**Thursday, October 3, 1968**

_That. Is. Nothing short of. Completely insane. What are the odds_?

Tarokun folded the newspaper. "The one person who could've helped us, and now she's gone."

There was a pause. And then he added:

"Bonnie, I asked you a question."

_Huh_?

"Two years ago. I asked you something, and the answer that you gave me...was it a lie?

Bonnie took a quick probe of his mind to see which question he was referring to.

_Yeah. I lied. Well, actually, my exact wording, if I recall, was 'What are you talking about?'. So technically I didn't lie_.

"Come on now! You knew what I would take that answer to mean."

_Well what was I supposed to say? 'Hey Tarokun yeah I dreamed about being a Nazi last night' because that's definitely what normal people dream about_.

"I dreamed it too so it's not like I was singling you out or anything."

There was a pause.

"Which one were you?"

_Szegedy. Which would make you..._?

"Von Schroeder."

Bonnie chuckled.

_So it really was you and me, way back then_.

"And we both just happened to remember that."

_...No, it wasn't some freak accident. Tarokun, I think it was your powers that made it possible_.

Nobutaro was silent. But then finally:

"...I owe you an apology, then. It was through your association with me that you came to remember such a horrible thing."

_You mean my own self, as I once was_?

"Exactly."

She shook her head.

_What's done is done. The bus will be here soon so finish getting ready. Pronto_.

* * *

He turned the circular combination lock and opened his locker, stashing his calculus book and then closing the locker again.

He looked left. Standing across the room was-

Cal. He waved.

Turning red as a beet, Nobutaro pivoted sharply in the other direction and stormed off in a hurry.

After that, he spent the rest of the school day with a single-minded focus on avoiding Cal.

* * *

"You want a piece of gum?"

"Sure."

Nobutaro took off the wrapper and plopped the piece of chewing candy in his mouth.

"...Quit smacking."

"S-Sorry."

The realization had yet to hit Nobutaro that the project was unsustainable.

Jane shook her head and looked up from the paper.

"I'm sorry, but my mind's totally blank today."

"Mine too," Nobutaro admitted.

"I guess there's no point in sitting here staring at a thousand feet away," Jane said.

Nobutaro started to get up.

"...Wait. Bonnie."

"Hmm?"

Jane gulped. "There something that I'd like to ask you."

"Okay...?"

"Was Taro-kun ever real?"

He sighed. "Yes. For the last time, yes. He's real. And I still keep in touch with him. As for why he never came to America, just don't ask."

"I see."

Jane casually twirled her hair.

"Do you love him?"

Nobutaro blinked.

"Do I what?"

"You heard me. Do you love Tarokun?"

Do I love myself? he thought.

"No."

On the other side, Bonnie was still asleep.

"So you've never been interested in anyone?" Jane asked.

"No."

Crap, I said that too quickly, he thought.

"Really? There's never been a boy somewhere who you had an eye for?"

Then Nobutaro realized this conversation wasn't just about him/Bonnie.

"How about you?" he asked.

Jane hesitated, like there was a frog in her throat holding her back from saying what she wanted to say.

And then she blurted out:

"I like Cal."

* * *

"Welcome back to, 'To Catch a Homophile', with your host, Christopher Jansen. Today we're on scene at our undercover sting house in Wichita, Kansas, where a slew of men have driven up and made their way inside, hoping to have sex with another man."

The man caught on camera stepping out of the car was none other than Tom. Tom stepped inside and said:

"Anybody home?"

From the other room came the reply "Just a minute my cat vomited on the carpet you can just wait in the kitchen a minute."

Tom sat down. Three seconds later, Christopher Jansen stepped out from behind a curtain.

"Good evening. And what might I suppose you're doing here?"

"What the...you're not a twenty year old!" Tom protested.

"I'm going to ask you to keep your hands out of your pockets. Okay?"

Tom complied.

"Alright. Now, I have in my hand the chat log of your conversations with 'Kyle'. Let's go over them real quick. You say here, 'I want to grab you in the *blankety blank* and *blank* you so hard until you *blank*.' Now, that doesn't sound like something a man normally says to another man."

"Nah bruh we were just gonna chill and stuff," Tom said.

"That's not what it says here."

Nobutaro and Gordy both watched the screen in shock.

"...It's over," Gordy muttered, incredulous. "Its finally over. Tom's going to prison and I..."

He got the chills all over.

"I'm... I'm FREE! Woohoo!"

He jumped up and down in the living room, ran around, leapt onto the couch and made a loud ruckus.

"...Wait, no. Gordy. Stop. This is no time to celebrate."

Gordy stopped. "Huh? Why not?"

"This is really, really bad," Nobutaro said. "Don't you see? Tom could tell the police about the boys he had relations with. Their parents are sure to be notified. Which means..."

The color drained from Gordy's face as the mortifying realization hit him.

"Mom and dad."

* * *

**Monday, October 7, 1968**

If Chad was wearing a hat, he would've removed it as an expression of shock.

"My son is a homo," he repeated. "My son is..."

The Principle brushed past the officer and sat down where the speakerphone was. He flipped the analogue switch, leaned in towards the mouthpiece, and declared:

"Gordy Cartwright, please report to the Principle's Office. Gordy Cartwright, please report to the Principle's Office."

Then he turned it off.

By this time Mrs. Cartwright was crying. He wondered whether the broadcast might've accidentally captured that.

The Principle sat back down at his desk and they all waited for Gordy to show up at the door.

...

...

He never did.

Gordy, who'd been waiting anxiously for the other shoe to drop these past few days, immediately knew the jig was up and made a run for it.

He was 15 years old.

* * *

That same morning, Nobutaro got up and went to school as normal, not thinking anything of note would happen today. He figured that by now if Tom hadn't blabbed on Gordy he probably never would, as each confession would mean more jail time, so the man had motive to keep his mouth shut and plead guilty to the one lesser offense he'd been brazenly caught in the act of.

The substitute teacher stepped into the lab and immediately began writing on the board.

"I don't know how far along you are so I'm going to cover basic material," he said. "Alright, let's see...Chemistry is, well technically, chemistry is the study of matter. But I prefer to think of it as the study of change."

"Yo yo yo b**ch! We already covered this s**t like a million times!" the one delinquent student in a skullcap blurted out.

The teacher, a scowl on his face, looked at the unruly student sitting in the back.

"And what, I suppose, might your name be?"

"Flynn," the delinquent answered.

"Well, Flynn...don't bulls**t a bulls**tter. I know you want to put on this whole 'tough loner' facade but the truth is, you're well behind your peers, aren't you? They all say 'it's nothing to be ashamed of' but yeah, it is something you ought to be quite ashamed of. Because you're what they call the dumb kid. Not because you're incapable of learning, but because you never applied yourself. Well guess what: in my class, if you don't apply yourself, you fail. Period. Because I am the one who knocks."

The delinquent scoffed. "The heck man, I'm like almost a B student in this class. All I's saying is, we done this before. Could you please move it along a little? Do something from the latest chapter in our textbook, maybe."

The teacher blinked. "Oh. Okay. Um, can someone tell me where you last picked off?"

Soon, things got back on track and lab partners were assigned at random.

Tarokun got assigned with-

Not him again dang it! he thought in horror.

Yup. It was Cal.

"Hi."

"...Hi," Nobutaro responded.

_Oooooh sparks they be flying tonight_, Bonnie said.

It'd been like this ever since the carnival. Bonnie had been teasing him relentlessly about Cal. Surely she knew how uncomfortable this situation was making him and yet she persisted anyway.

He had to wonder: was this but a tiny morsel of how Gordy felt for the past two years?

Later...

After class ended, Cal volunteered himself and Bonnie to put away the equipment, to Nobutaro's chagrin.

They were all alone. And Tarokun's exit route had been blocked off.

There was one thing to do, then: pay little attention to Cal and get this job done as quickly as possible.

"Hey, uh, listen, Bonnie..." Cal began.

Nobutaro continued with what he was doing.

"I get the feeling that, um, what happened at the carnival is making you feel a little um, uneasy around me," Cal said. "I would just like to assure you now that I would never knowingly violate your boundaries. You just seemed like you were having a good time with me that night, dancing and whatnot, and..."

On the other side of the world Bonnie laughed as Cal took a step closer.

Nobutaro faced Cal and froze in place.

Breaking mutual gaze he looked down at his/her feet. They were pointed at Cal.

There's really no way to avoid this, huh, he thought.

_H-Hey, don't you tell me you're even considering_-

And then, "Bonnie" placed "her" arms around Cal's side. Seconds later, Cal did the same to "Bonnie". They stared at each other longingly.

_Tarokun, cut it out! I was kidding, okay?! I swear it was just a joke! I never wanted this to happen! I admit it was more than a little amusing to see you in this bind but I never actually thought_-

Too late.

They kissed. And it felt good for both of them.

Seconds later Jane walked in on them, having left her lucky eraser in the class.

Tarokun's eyes pivoted to see her standing there.

But she didn't stand there very long. Rather:

Jane, without saying a word, turned her face away and ran out.

* * *

**Friday, October 11, 1968**

This was what they called the seedy part of town. Neon lights advertised row after row of nightclub and bar. In fact, the Round Robin was not far from here.

To a passerby unfamiliar with the area, it would've looked surreal. Silhouettes of figures standing by the road, as though all waiting for somebody to pull over and roll down their window.

That person did exactly so.

A male figure approached his vehicle. It was...

"I-I'll make you see heaven for thirty bucks and a cheeseburger."

The voice was that of a teenage boy.

"...You can't be serious."

"I-I'm sorry?"

"What's your name, kid?"

"I can't tell you."

"Huh?"

"Please sir. This is my first time doing this so I'm a little awkward but I need food and money. I'll make it worth your while, if you want. I, uh, have experience."

"...Get in."

Gordy climbed into the back and they drove off.

Soon, they arrived...

At the police station. Gordy had tried to proposition an undercover cop.

* * *

Nobutaro heard a door opening downstairs. And then a thud.

As soon as Gordy stepped into the house Chad knocked him to the floor.

"You like that, huh?! You little f**king degenerate?! Go to your room NOW, and we'll talk about this in the morning."

Nobutaro heard sniffling as Gordy went up the stairs.

And then the door to Gordy's room slammed closed.

"...Bonnie, are you seeing this?"

No answer.

"Your brother's home."

Again, no answer.

Bonnie still hadn't forgiven him over what happened the other day with Cal. In her own words then, "You know what? Screw you! You can stay in my body and keep smooching Cal until the day you rot! See if I give a hoot! You and me, we're through! For good!"

He sighed. That there was something he couldn't fix at the present time. But he could go see Gordy. That much was in his power.

He stood up and went to Gordy's room.

"Leave me alone."

Nobutaro shook his head. "No. Not this time."

There was a pause.

"I shouldn't have walked away two years ago," Nobutaro continued. "When this started, when I first saw it in your eyes. The way that you were being violated...Fawn eyed boy. I am sorry."

"What are you talking about Bonnie?"

Tarokun smiled sadly. "I'm sure there's no way you remember, anyhow. That was so long ago. But it's my lot in life to never forget, so that you don't have to recall the events of that day. And yet, it looks like more or less the same thing happened to you this time around as well. I wonder if this is part of the curse."

"Y-You're not making any sense."

"And that's perfectly fine. All you need to know is..."

"THIS!"

He charged the bed and tackled Gordy, pinning him down in an all-encompassing embrace.

"...So long as this continues, I will never leave you. Miklos. Gordy. Whoever you are. I will not abandon you to your fate."

Gordy was blushing profusely. "Bonnie, w-what the heck..."

Nobutaro didn't say anything, but soon after let go and they both stood up.

"Gordy, the days ahead are going to be rough. Very, very rough. But I'm going to do everything I can to help you through them."

"I'm not sure I can do this. Dad hates me. Mom hates me too, I'm sure. Everyone thinks I'm subhuman...for something I never had a choice about!"

He was starting to get flustered. Nobutaro, in turn, tried to calm him down.

It was a long and draining night. But worth it completely.

* * *

Nobutaro was right. The nearly two weeks that followed proved extremely rough. Gordy observed in horror as his parents, the people who'd been so good to him his whole life, suddenly warped into complete monsters. No occasion proved inopportune for another chance to humiliate and torment him. Though they dared not tell anyone what happened with their son, the difference in the way they treated him now was evident to all.

Per Gordy's telling, when he ran away he was unable to take anything with him save the clothes on his back. He was forced to rummage through trash cans to survive, and sleep in the cold. Sick and tired of this, he resolved finally to make some money doing the one thing he knew he was good at. At the time it seemed preferable to the alternative.

Those hellish next couple of days soon gave way to an even bigger tragedy that made Gordy's dalliances with men seem like a non-problem.

* * *

_The date was January 18, 1953. Company E was in shambles._

_Having received advanced warning that a relatively small communist force of maybe 500 men planned to capture a certain bridge and would be there in less than 48 hours, they were ordered to break off from the main force and march six hours northwest to secure it beforehand._

_As it turned out, they'd been led into a trap. The "friendly locals" who tipped off the army were in all likelihood communist sympathizers. They got to the bridge and found North Koreans waiting for them. As they first approached the bridge they were out in the open, leaving them vulnerable to concentrated fire. Their commanding officer, First Lieutenant Dale Mathers, ordered a chaotic retreat after a halfhearted charge to take the bridge. This had about three and a half hours ago._

_About half of the Company was now dead. Many more were wounded, and some of these were on the verge of death. Everyone hated Mathers for ordering the charge, and not so whispered talk of mutiny electrified the atmosphere._

_Reaching a clearing in the forest, next a stream that ultimately fed into the river, Mathers had them stop and rest. The men who'd sustained injuries in the battle were leaned against trees and the rest went to gather water._

_Kevin Miller, who had been a spoiled kid just one year ago, took a moment to gaze upon his reflection in the water. It was running water so the image was blurry._

_He was lucky enough to have gotten out unscathed. So far, at least. But this war didn't look like it had any end in sight. And WWII had lasted almost six years. Assuming that he'd be active duty for at least three more years, his odds of surviving weren't looking very good. He wondered how much longer he had before it was his time to go._

_He crouched down and filled his canteen to the brim._

_The chaplain who'd tagged along came up beside him and did the same._

_"...I bet you regret this choice of career," Kevin said._

_"Couldn't the same be said of every man here?" the chaplain replied._

_"True."_

_Kevin filled a second canteen belonging to a wounded man, his friend Johann._

_"What are we even doing here anyways?" Kevin blurted out. "We're fighting a force of nature."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"I mean, we're fighting the Koreans and the Chinese. They're not like us. Us? We just wanna go home. But them? They're like worker bees in a hive. They'll throw their lives away without a second thought if their supreme leader tells them to do it. The only way to defeat an enemy like this is to, well, kill all of them."_

_"Do you really believe that?" the chaplain asked. "Do you really think they're so different from us? I think all people want to live. It's in our nature. It's how the Lord made us, whatever our skin color."_

_Kevin sighed. "I'm sorry reverend but I just can't believe in that sort of thing. I seen a lot of guys praying in the foxholes but they're just as likely to get their heads blown off as anyone else."_

_The chaplain shrugged. "Then what about me? I've been here almost since the war began. And I'm still alive. You know, there's a Psalm. It says, 'I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging for bread.' I put my faith in the Lord, and He has been my shield, my protector. And I know that even if I die I'll fly straight to His presence...So how about you? Have you put your hope in Jesus?"_

_They were so busy talking that they didn't see it._

_On the other side of a stream, a Korean man crept up, wielding a rifle._

_The man aimed his gun at the chaplain._

_And fired._

_It all happened so fast. One second the reverend was eagerly holding a conversation, the next his face was blown wide open._

_Blood splattered all over Kevin._

_Enraged, he pointed his rifle at the man across the stream and opened fire, squeezing the trigger at a feverish pace, discharging round after round after round._

_It was not long at all before his assailant was dead, blood seeping into the water from both sides of the stream._

_Panting, Kevin dropped his weapon and fell backwards, looking up at the sky overlooking the hellish landscape of the Korean Peninsula._

* * *

**Thursday, October 24, 1968**

Nobutaro and Gordy woke up this morning to find their father in a catatonic state, staring at a wall unable or unwilling to speak. Their mother had already thrown out the newspaper so they couldn't read it. Neither she nor Chad would explain what'd happened. Gordy had to wonder if this was the "final stage" of his father's rage towards him.

Early on in the day Mr. Yuri gave Tarokun a call and spilled the beans:

The Stigmata Killer's identity had been exposed as he was in the process of taking his ninth victim. He was on the run now, but presumably he would be caught soon. As it turned out, Stiggie had been a police officer. Every cop in the city was reeling in horror that one of their own might've been responsible for such heinous crimes perpetrated over the course of 11 years. And surely also the top brass had to be in full-blown panic mode at how this would affect the police's standing with the general public.

Nobutaro afterwards explained what happened to Gordy, who was greatly relieved that this had nothing to do with him. Though over the phone Yuri didn't state the Stigmata Killer's name, Nobutaro presumed it was likely someone who his dad knew, or at least had known or met at some point. That would explain it, after all.

While on the phone, Nobutaro and Yuri agreed on a certain course of action. Later that night they would check the storage locker to check on the knife.

And so...

* * *

"By the way, Tarokun, you say you know how to drive?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm. Well in that case, do you mind just going up there yourself in my car?"

"H-Huh?"

Nobutaro stopped himself from asking why Mr. Yuri didn't want to go. He knew the answer:

Mrs. Matthews passed away a couple of days ago from kidney failure. The entire church went to her funeral and pay their last respects to the woman who served faithfully as their organist for many years. Having once been married to her, and perhaps still having feelings for her on some level, Mr. Yuri took her death hard and so he didn't want to leave the house.

He handed Nobutaro the keys and closed the door.

* * *

Nobutaro used the key to open the locked space.

Sure enough, after about a minute of rummaging around the knife wasn't where it should've been.

Well, he thought, it's been established already that Stiggie isn't dad. But still, clearly he was somebody who knew dad. If only I had a copy of today's paper...

He took one last good look at the photo of his mother and then shut the locker.

He re-entered Mr. Yuri's car and shut the driver side door. He strapped the seatbelt and put the key in the ignition.

But then:

"Don't move."

Before Nobutaro could react there was a cord around his neck.

Nobutaro should've been deathly afraid right now. But he'd been in bad scrapes before. He'd put his life on the line before. He was not some innocent bystander to whimper in fear, beg for his life.

No. He, Nobutaro Cartwright, was a predator. A predator who targeted predators. Or, if you would, a tertiary predator. Stiggie was in the same car as him? Good. It simply meant he would be getting his fill of blood tonight.

"You must be the Stigmata Killer," he said. "We meet at last."

"...Bonnie?"

Wait.

Bonnie?

Stiggie knew Bonnie personally? Just by her voice?

Who the heck was he talking to?

The man leaned in forward and looked "Bonnie" in the face.

Nobutaro turned his/her head and caught a glimpse of the man. It was:

"Kevin?"

* * *

Kevin Miller, the Stigmata Killer's true identity, sat back down in the backseat, perplexed.

Nobutaro could hear his assailant breathing harder now. Much harder. And much more erratic.

"Sh*t...Sh*t. Not again. N-Not again. Not another somebody I know..."

Bonnie, come on, Nobutaro pleaded silently. Where are you? I'm not asking you to take my place. Just help me out. You have the means. You're in my body, after all. Come on. I saved you once before. Will you please help me now?

But there was no answer. Which meant...

Tarokun truly had been abandoned. That option closed off, he turned his attention to the man holding a cord to his throat.

"Kevin? Why are you doing this? You're friends with my dad. Are you really the person behind a decade-long string of murders?"

"Well OBVIOUSLY!" Kevin exploded. "Everybody knows my name now. Everybody knows my face now! It was plastered on the front page of today's paper! The whole country knows by now, surely. And I...I..."

He took wheezing breaths. It filled him with panic just to admit out loud what he'd done.

"I killed my friend. Mr. Callaghan. Just last night. I swear I didn't know it was him! I-I didn't know he shopped there! It was dark and I didn't recognize the vehicle."

He recomposed himself. "But enough about that. First things first. Start the car and drive. I'll tell you where to go."

There was a pause.

"If you don't do as you're told, I'll kill you now. You should know very well what I'm capable of."

For the time being, Nobutaro had no other option.

They took the car onto the main road.

"Keep going for about four miles. Then I'll have you turn."

Nobutaro looked at the speedometer. They were sustaining about 40 MPH, which meant he had at least six minutes to think of something.

For the time being, he needed to keep his attacker distracted. And to do that...

"Kevin, let me ask you again. Why are you doing this?"

Kevin shook his head. "It started a long, long time ago. When you were very little. I was a soldier in a war fought on the other side of the world."

Korea. Nobutaro had heard about that.

"I had a really bad day," Kevin continued. "A really, really horrible day. The worst. And, well, I realized that God does not protect his own. I was a gambler and a drinker. I'd already visited a whorehouse twice before. Standing right beside me was a man of God. Guess which one of us died? Well, that much should be obvious, I guess. So if God didn't care about his own creation, who did? And then it hit me: the devil. He doesn't like people. Just the opposite. But he's always been open to striking a deal with humans, or so I heard. I could help him kill a bunch of innocent people, and in exchange he'd give me what I wanted. I wanted to go home, to live a long life in peace and comfort."

He continued: "Guess what. I made it out of there. A lot of guys didn't. But I got to go home. I was never shot, maimed, or so much as injured. It's like there was something protecting me. But anyways, when I got back I thought about the promise I'd made: to collect ten human sacrifices in the name of the devil. By this time I was no longer in any danger. And I wondered whether I survived by sheer luck. If so, then I owed nothing, right? And it was just so extreme a thing to ask of me that I decided I wasn't gonna go through with it."

"Why did you, then?"

That's right, Nobutaro thought. Keep him talking. As for that certain thing, I believe I may yet make good use of it.

"Something happened. I was drinking with your dad and Mr. Callaghan. As I was leaving this guy came out of nowhere and mugged me. I could've died then, but...I didn't. It wouldn't have made any sense for the devil to kill me then. If he did that, he couldn't collect on what I owed. No, that was a warning."

He continued: "But even then, I still didn't want to do it. In fact, I finally mustered the courage to try to kill myself. Chad, your father, he gave me a revolver. Self defense, he said. But no, instead I was going to use it to take my own life. That very night I tried it. I played a game of Russian Roulette. Spun the gun each time, put the barrel in my mouth, and pulled the trigger. I played eight rounds and didn't die. What are the odds of that? It's not luck. It was the devil. He wasn't gonna let me die just yet...So I decided instead to live. I rolled up my sleeves and did it. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't fun. There was nothing good to be found in it. It was murder, cut and dry. I know that. You think I don't know that?! But I chose me. Not them. Me! I chose my own life over theirs! Yes. They died for my sake. I made heroes and martyrs out of them...though I'm sure you'll wholeheartedly disagree with that."

Kevin's insane, Nobutaro realized. He's been like this for a whole decade but nobody's ever noticed? Dad or Mr. Callaghan...Nobody ever noticed? He didn't give off any blatant warning signs? How could he have gotten away with this for so long?

"Anyways, something else happened," Kevin said. "I had to stop for a while. And I also thought it good to stop because, well, let's be honest. I wasn't totally confident that the devil would keep his end of the bargain after I'd taken my tenth victim. So the longer I put off finishing, the more time I was guaranteed to have. But I knew he would eventually run out of patience. So at the start of this year I picked back up, with victim number seven. And then eight. And then finally, last night I took victim number nine. Gay was...well, he was appalled to discover that I was the monster they'd been pursuing all this time. In those last moments, he wasn't my friend anymore. He was a police officer. He grabbed the police radio, stated his name...and gave up mine to the responder on the other side, a man working for the Wichita PD. He pulled all this off before I could kill him. Before we could leave the parking lot of that store, even. No, rather...it was my own hesitation that allowed him to pull it off."

He continued: "So here we are now. I'm on the run. They could catch me at any time. All I have to live for is the vague hope that the devil will keep his promise to me after I take my tenth victim. That somehow, some way, he'll give me my life back. That's all I have at this point. And I have nothing to lose. I can't stand the thought of killing Chad's daughter. But I can't stand losing either. And I am SO, SO close to winning! Your life is the only remaining obstacle! Bonnie! I'm gonna-

Sensing this was a good time to put his plan into effect, Nobutaro suddenly pressed the brakes as hard as he could.

Kevin, who wasn't wearing a seatbelt, was propelled two feet forward. His arms holding the cord went forward along with him, meaning he no longer had "Bonnie" in a hold. Nobutaro ducked, slipped out from Kevin's grasp, undid his seatbelt, opened the door, and ran out.

Kevin had no time to recompose himself and give chase because-

The car behind him, having no advance warning that the vehicle in front was going to stop suddenly, went crashing into it.

Then, Nobutaro ran back towards the car and tackled Kevin inside, grabbing the knife from his belt and slitting his throat with it before the older man could respond.

"Rot in hell," Nobutaro said as Kevin flailed wildly, the red stuff oozing from his neck at a scary fast pace.

Knowing there was a possible witness watching the driver side door, he opened the passenger side door and ran out, trying to make as much distance between himself and the crime scene as possible.

With the conclusion of this final battle, peace was restored to Wichita after 11 years.

And yet...

* * *

_On October 23, the Stigmata Killer's ninth victim, Gaylord Dewey Callaghan, was found in his car dead, though his body was not mutilated as with the prior victims. Sergeant Culpepper of the Wichita PD was on duty when the transmission came in._

_The night following, October 24, Kevin Miller's dead body was found dead in a car identified by license plate and vehicle registration as belonging to Yuriy Hrytsuk, a local man who lived alone and owned a seasonal decorated egg business. The driver of the other car at the scene only sustained minor injuries. After a lengthy interrogation Mr. Yuri finally "came clean" and confessed: that he had been abducted by Kevin, but he managed to kill him and flee. The story made sense so they let him go. Soon after Mr. Yuri's name was released to the public as the man who killed Stiggie._

_Mr. Callaghan was, of course, buried with high honors. Every cop in the area came and paid their respects. Kevin's funeral posed a more difficult dilemma. His parents came, distraught and completely blindsided by their son's double life. They recounted that from their experiences he was a "loner" after coming back from Korea but also a "responsible young man" who helped out whenever asked to do so. He evidently had everyone fooled. From my testimony Mr. Yuri was able to provide the police with an account of Kevin's motive. This, in turn, sparked a panic about witchcraft in churches across the Wichita area._

_Dad went to both funerals. We came with him, and I recalled that he didn't say one word either time._

_During this whole ordeal I didn't hear from Bonnie. Her vow to be "finished" with me forever was one that she evidently took seriously._

_This was the same young woman who, two years ago, assured me that there was nothing I could ever do to make her hate me. In truth, all it took was one kiss of the wrong person._

_But there was one saving grace: she didn't switch back with me. Maybe it was because the person who controlled my body decided the rules of engagement._

_Or maybe it was because she didn't want me walking away again._

_A young man like me could hope as much...right?_

* * *

_My story is almost over. To you who've read this all the way to the end, I thank you for your boundless patience._

_After losing two of his friends, one to death and the other to betrayal, dad wasn't the same. If he was depressed and broken before, he was pretty much a dead man walking now. He no longer had any room in his heart for revulsion towards his son, assuming he had just one. Nor any room for kindness. There was nothing left but despair at first, and then apathy._

_He continued to go to work, if only because that was what he'd always done. But productivity declined noticeably. Finally, on December 3 he came home early one day. His boss had fired him._

_We had barely enough savings to get us through the month without a source of continued income. __But dad wasn't even looking for work. When he stopped working, he stopped functioning altogether. Even the allure of alcohol wouldn't get him out of the house. All he ever did was sleep all the time._

_And mom started slipping out of the house. Every day. Constantly. She'd leave in the morning and not be back until night. Me and Gordy ate sandwiches twice a day, would leave one in dad's room as well. Some days he ate, others he did not._

_Me and Jane failed our project. She refused to speak with me, much less work with me. For the most part, though, I kept up with the rest of my schoolwork, or, rather, Bonnie's schoolwork that she wasn't doing any more. I didn't resent this particular detail. After all, on the other side of the world Bonnie had a teaching job that paid pretty good. Or, at least, she did as of the time that she broke things off between us._

_I couldn't imagine things getting worse than they were now._

_But then came Christmas Eve._

* * *

**Tuesday, December 24, 1968**

"That. Was. Incredible."

They lied on their backs, their forms concealed by the bedsheets.

Stacey sat up and lifted the cigarette from the ashtray sitting on the nightstand, deciding that she wanted one more puff.

Reggie Hudson, age 48, a big black man, had his arms folded smugly behind his head. He knew Stacey enjoyed it, and that brought him a sense of deep satisfaction.

They met about six months ago, when Stacey first walked into his uncle's store. At the time Reggie was manning the cash register. Despite their racial differences, they hit up a conversation and, as it turned out, they had great chemistry. And so, Stacey came back again, and again, cautiously flirting with the man, entertaining the idea of having an affair.

When December hit, she decided she was going to take this beyond mere flirting. She'd had enough of her husband. A man who for the past two years had done nothing to attend to her needs, and who had recently become even more useless. Reggie made her feel wanted and appreciated. He'd been a gentleman, and he was absolutely amazing in bed, as she learned these past few weeks. Here she was, a woman in her 40s, in the throes of the same kind of intense passion that she felt in her 20s for Chad, a passion that had long since dried up completely.

"Whelp, I'm gonna make dinner now," Reggie said. "You can join me if you want."

He got out of bed and began putting his clothes back on.

"Wait," Stacey said. "About that thing we discussed..."

"Aw baby I didn't think you were serious or nothing," Reggie said. "Don't you got like two kids and a man?"

Stacey scoffed. "Some man. I mean it though, Reggie. I want out. I want to take the kids and run away with you. We can start a new life together."

"How you gonna do that? Not like the courts are gonna let you bail on your husband."

"I've been thinking about that," Stacey said. "And I think I have an idea."

"Oh?"

"I'm not looking forward to this, but I'm willing to give it a try."

"What's your idea?" Reggie asked.

There was an awkward pause.

And then, Stacey blurted out:

"You have to hit me."

"...Excuse me?" Reggie said with a raised eyebrow. "I have to what?"

"Clock me straight in the noggin. Give me a black eye. We'll go to the police and testify together that Chad gave me this."

Reggie laughed nervously. "And, what exactly? You think your kids are gonna testify against their old man?"

Stacey sighed. "I think they're so weary of the way things have been with him for so long that they're not going to outright side with him against their mother. Those are odds I can live with."

Reggie nodded slowly, mulling over the idea.

"Are you sure about this? Like, you really want me to punch you?"

"I am. Go ahead. Don't hold back. The worse it looks the better our case will be."

"...Alright. Here goes nothing."

And then he hit her so hard that she fell into a coma.

* * *

_It was getting late when we got the call. Looking back, I do not recall the time._

_But I remember what I was doing: sitting in Bonnie's room, wrapping a gift that I'd prepared for Mr. Yuri. I was going to give it to him tomorrow, brighten his cloudy sky just a smidgen. He needed it, now more than ever. I don't remember exactly what the gift was. That was quite a while ago. But I recall that I put a lot of thought into it, which made me think he would probably like it._

_The phone rang downstairs. Gordy went down and answered it. And then he came back up here, a clear tone of panic in his voice. Him and I waited for dad to get ready so we could go to the hospital. It was the last time any of us were in that house. But we left so nonchalantly, assuming we'd come right back later._

_She was not my mother. And yet, when I saw her it broke my heart. An IV drip attached to her arm and nose, an EKG monitor hooked up beside her hospital bed._

_Gordy wept openly and grasped her non-responsive hand. Dad was silent and stone-faced, as though he was truly beyond all hope of feeling anything ever again, to the point that even his comatose wife would not move him to tears._

_The doctor told us she probably didn't have much longer to live. Maybe a couple of days. Her brain was critically damaged from what they could tell. What was left of her was slowly shutting down._

_Finally, after about two hours dad told us it was time to go home._

_In the span of those two hours, I did not feel Bonnie's presence even once, nor hear her voice in my head. As far as I know, she wasn't even aware that this was happening. __Perhaps I was not as distressed about this as she was of almost dying then? In that case, what would it take?_

_Bonnie missed the passing of her own mother because I kissed Cal once. Seemingly little indiscretions can have catastrophic implications. I knew that I was responsible for this._

* * *

It was snowing that night. Assuming that it kept up things were shaping to be a white Christmas. Coincidentally, that had played on the radio during the trip to the hospital.

They got into the car. Nobutaro and Gordy strapped themselves in, while failing to notice that Chad didn't do so.

They pulled onto a service road and headed south.

Fearing that their dad might be very upset, neither dared speak up. But then:

"Say, Gordy, have I ever told you about Naoko?"

The hairs on the back of Nobutaro's head stiffened as goosebumps washed over him. Was Chad really about to speak openly with his children about the affair he had two decades ago with a Japanese woman?

"Who's Naoko?" Gordy asked.

Chad laughed.

"I suppose I never would've told you about that," he said. "I had good reason to keep quiet. But...not tonight. This is a special night, see. There are to be no secrets, whatsoever."

There was a stunned silence from both Gordy and Nobutaro. So ridiculously soon after being informed that Stacey was going to die and for all intents and purposes was brain-dead already, he was laughing and speaking jovially. This was literally the opposite reaction they would've expected.

"It was nineteen years ago," Chad said. "I was a much younger man, living on a US army base in Japan. Nineteen years ago to the day, actually. Christmas Eve, 1949. There was a woman in the area, her name was Naoko. And she...well, I was not faithful to your mother, if you can believe that."

This much didn't come as a big surprise to Gordy, though the fact that Chad was casually confessing to this now was.

"Normally, the right thing for a man in my shoes to say would be 'I regret what happened'," Chad said. "But I can't say that. Because that would mean I regretted also the consequences of my actions. I do not. I regret only how things ended between us. I loved her...And I loved your mother too. My heart was big enough for the two of them at once."

He continued:

"Anyways, nineteen years ago today. Me and her, we made love in a place where I don't remember now. The place isn't important. What happened during it is. It was...only for a couple of seconds. Maybe ten to twenty seconds. But for that brief interlude we...changed places. Gordy, you should take special note of this. Because what happened was like something out of a science fiction novel."

"W-What happened?"

"We, uh, I believe the correct term is 'switched bodies'," Chad said. "I was on top of her at first, and then all of the sudden I was a lot lighter, smaller. And a larger figure, that of a man, was on top of me. That man was my own body, inhabited in that moment by Naoko. And I must say, it was a pleasurable experience...I'll give you a moment to process what you're hearing."

Wait, mom had powers?! Nobutaro thought.

"It was, in certain respects, similar to the experiences you've had," Chad said. "It was between myself and a male body acting upon me. Granted, in my case the experience was only for a moment. But..."

"S-So what you're saying is, you're a hypocrite!" Gordy said. "You treated me like dog sh*t e-even though you yourself once did what I only did against my will, because Tom forced me to do it for two years?!"

"You are exactly right," Chad said. "I prided myself as being a real man, a returning war hero, and I expected my son to be a 'real man' also. I sealed away that memory to the recesses of my mind, even questioned its authenticity. But considering everything else that I was witness to for the time that I knew Naoko, I must conclude that it really did happen. I would ask your forgiveness, but...there's no time for that."

Time? Nobutaro thought.

"There's another thing you should know," Chad said. "Gordy...you have a big brother that I never told you about."

"H-Huh...?"

"And if I'm not mistaken, he's sitting here in this car alongside us."

This was a crazy night. Some crazy things had been said already. That Chad knew about Nobutaro wasn't such a huge leap.

He sighed. "Well, the jig's up."

"Bonnie? You?" Gordy realized.

"Sorry, but the name's not Bonnie. She changed places with me about three months ago. Holding down a job in Japan about now. But more to the point: how did you know, dad?"

Chad laughed. "Just call it an old man's intuition. Well, there's that and then there was a certain conversation Bonnie had with me about a year ago. Anyways...with the exception of Bonnie, we're all here now. It's time."

"Time for what?" Gordy asked.

"H-Hey," Nobutaro realized. "Dad, you're not wearing your seatbelt. Don't tell me-

"Oh? I'm surprised you figured it out," Chad said. "But then again, you and Bonnie did hunt down four serial killers, so...Anyways, I am the head of my house, the father to my children. It is my responsibility to decide what's best for my children, and act accordingly. This is what I choose. For us to be a family again. To be reunited with all of those who were lost."

"You're not making any sen-

"He's going to kill us all," Nobutaro interjected. "Isn't that right?"

Chad nodded. "Heaven is not a place that the living can ever visit. Gordy, I know you're the one who's going to object to this the most. But let me ask you this: could you find happiness in the rest of your mortal life, going through with your plans to become a woman-

"W-Wait, how do you know about that?!" Gordy demanded.

"You're not as good at hiding things as you think you are, sheesh," Chad answered. "I found the literature under your bed, and after recent events I was able to piece two and two together. But there is no escaping what's happened to you, my son. For the rest of your life, there will be a target on your back. Men will flock to you. You will be propositioned. Manipulated into carnal relationships with them. Molested, even. One day you will kill yourself...Which is why I'm not going to go quietly and take just myself. This is for your good too."

Gordy couldn't dispute that his life prospects didn't look very good at all.

"And what about me?" Nobutaro asked.

Chad sighed. "Well, if I let you out of the car now, Gordy will make a run for it. I'm sorry about this. I'm sure you had goals in life."

Nobutaro shook his head. "I loved Bonnie. But she wants nothing to do with me now."

"Hmm? Really? Even though she's your half-sister?"

"I loved her before I found that out," Nobutaro said. "Those feelings just happened to persist afterwards."

"I see. Well then, it seems there's no reason for me to back out of doing this. To both of you, I'm sorry that I wasn't the father I could've been. So much time has been wasted. For you especially, Tarokun. Or can I call you that?"

Nobutaro smiled sadly. "Tarokun is just fine."

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Tarokun," Chad said. "Oh, but...Bonnie's not coming with us. Could you tell her where we're going?"

Nobutaro shook his head. "She's completely blocking me now. Though, I suspect that if I die, she'll definitely notice that."

"I see. In that case, could your old man ask something of you?"

"What's that?"

"No matter what happens on the other side, promise me that you'll wait for Bonnie to join us."

"However long it takes, I will wait for her," Nobutaro vowed. "I swear it."

"...Very well then. I guess there's nothing left that needs discussing."

"You're wrong," Nobutaro said. "I have one more question remaining...Why did you leave her behind?"

"Naoko? That much should've been obvious. I had a family at home waiting for me. Though I knew she was pregnant, staying with her would've meant leaving Stacey behind. Do you think I made the wrong choice, Tarokun?"

Nobutaro shook his head. "If you had chosen to stay, then Bonnie and Gordy would never have been born."

"True. And in regards to your mother, there's one more thing. One thing I've always wondered. With a woman of her abilities, how was it that she believed me when I told her I would be coming back for her?"

"I've asked myself that same question," Nobutaro said. "The only conclusion I could reach is that she chose not to gauge your intentions. She wanted to take a leap of faith and believe that you'd be coming back to her, and she didn't want to risk seeing anything that challenged this assertion."

"That's a solid answer," Chad said. "Well, if I'm not mistaken then I'll have a chance to apologize to her very soon."

Nobutaro undid his seatbelt.

"Are you also crazy?!" Gordy protested.

"Gordy, you can choose to try and hang on to life if you want," Nobutaro said. "As for me, without Bonnie I am nothing. At least if I die, she'll notice that. That's the one and only thing I can still do."

"Prepare yourselves," Chad said. "In just a few seconds I'm gonna do it. At that point, there'll be no turning back."

And beneath his breath he muttered:

"Stacey, Gay...and to everyone else I lost, I'm coming."

By this time Gordy was screaming and bawling his eyes out.

Nobutaro closed his eyes, spaced out everything around him.

Bonnie, he thought. Thank you for everything. This lonely little boy was able to experience something close to a normal life because of you. I hurt you, twice. No, more than twice. But I specifically betrayed you twice. I don't blame you for abandoning me now. People have walked away from relationships for far less. But know that you mean the world to me. You have from when we first met, and you still do. You are my vision, always.

**BBBBBLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMM**

At 10:59 PM, December 24, 1968, Nobutaro Cartwright, while inhabiting the body of Bonnie Cartwright, was killed instantly, alongside Chad and Gordy Cartwright, when their car crashed at nearly 60 MPH into a sturdy oak tree.

* * *

**The End**

* * *

("Be Thou My Vision" by Kalafina, feat. Yuki Kajiura, instrumentals in "Celtic" style)

_Bi thusa mo shuile a ri mhor na nduil_

_Lion thusa mo bheatha, mo cheadfai's mo stuaim_

_Bi thusa i m'aigne gach oiche's gach la_

_Im chodladh no im dhuiseacht lion me le do gra_

_Bi thusa mo threoru i mbriathar is i mbeart_

_Fan thusa go deo liom is coinnigh me ceart_

_Glac curam mar athair is eist le mo ghui_

_Is tabhair domhsa ait conai istigh i do chroi_

* * *

(After its long hiatus Detective Conan will be returning soon! Was Ran's encounter with "Bonnie" not what it seemed? After losing the battle of Teitan Primary, what is the Black Organization's next move? Look forward to it! *laughs*)


	13. Nobutaro's Prophecy

**Ode to the Giver of Days**

Do not profess to be wise, nor place your trust

In Venus and her consort resting above the firmaments

How vain, o stargazer! Do the gods spin like tops?

In a fixed pattern, as the cycles of women?

And not like men, who choose to go out or to stay in

Tell me, are the gods like babes that we must feed them?

Will it be tomorrow that we must wipe their rear ends too?

O man, endowed with thought, you bow to the unthinking

Even the learned are as children in their limited understanding

Your days he has stretched out with his hand, and measured

The one who commands the stars, and the tides and storms

He bears a thousand names from a thousand nations and cities

He has been called Tiamat, Marduk, Ishtar, Milcom, and Baal

His true name is hidden but to those to whom he loves to whisper

To these it is only heard, for the tongue cannot hope to repeat it

In his court is found the law above the laws of kings

His law is without blemish, for iniquity is only found apart from him

He speaks changes unto its provisions and none can withstand it

Who can keep his law? Who can know it?

He shows favor to those who ask for knowledge and mercy, and who obey.

For he rewards the faithful and diligent according to his good pleasure

* * *

**Preamble**

From the halls of the pharaoh to the abode of the Scythians

I am renowned as greatest among soothsayers of the gods

I have heard about the deeds of the worthy in your midst

Those who have not withheld even their firstborns from the sacred flames

Therefore I am sent to you, to proclaim within the walled citadels

The word that reveals hidden things, that mighty works might be done in his name

His eye has seen as it shall be in the last days, of the lawless generation

In a time and place that you know nothing of, but that you should dwell then and there

In those days the echo of a man shall carry from one corner of the earth to the other

From the burning of watery pitch carts will roll faster than a leopard's sprint

A great abundance of men shall overtake the earth, but this burden shall not overwhelm it

Among the high countries famine, drought, and plague are words without meaning

Men shall walk in leisure and toil lightly with their fingers while seated

A few kings will have the power to raze a hundred cities in an hour's time

And so war between these shall cease, and a truce shall fall upon the high countries

By those signs the last days shall be recognized, but worry not your hearts, o my peers

Not even the saplings that you have planted shall live to see the coming of those times

To the rediscoverers in those days, do not think that he sees not your doubt and unbelief

For the giver of days has fashioned the heart of every man, and knows its inner workings

Unto you these signs have been given; observe and repent! For the fields lie fallow

Three seaworthy vessels shall voyage to a virgin land that lies west of a great ocean

Others shall follow after and settle the land, from which a great nation shall arise

A people who laugh at kings and enjoy an exceeding abundance of wealth, mighty in battle

In the last days the people of laughter will ready their armies against the great king of the east

Their fleets will cross the ocean and there shall be a long standoff in the plains to the north

His nostrils flare against the pride of the king of the east, who would take all nations captive

The standoff in the plains shall last fewer than fifty years, and the people of laughter will triumph

The king of the east shall lose his kingdom, from within its own walls it will collapse upon itself

From the year of the three ships four hundred and seventy six more shall pass

Among the people of laughter the voice of the groaning dark skinned men will be silenced

Eighteen years afterwards they, having built a great vessel to rise to the stars, will watch it burn

Here is yet another sign: fifteen years after that has come to pass the sons of a false piety

Will bring ruin to the moneylending centers of the people of laughter, whose fury will be incited

The people of laughter will scour the four corners of the earth and kill them in their hiding places

With your own two eyes you shall see all of these things come to pass; repent and believe

For his work remains to be done in your time, and yet the laborers are few in number

* * *

**First Part**

In the beginning of the world it was so that a few were appointed by him to govern the many

They had the power to replace their inward parts as they faltered with those taken from the people

Their days were many, their years many, retaining the sweetness of youth after a hundred years

The lives of the people were given up to them, chosen by lot, as the due exchange for this privilege

The people cried out in their fear and loss, and in their anger shook their fists at heaven, blaspheming

The appointment of cruel officers over them had been to instill a humility and piety in their spirits

They saw not the rewards that were allotted to them in the life hereafter for their longsuffering

In their shortsighted ingratitude they rose up in rebellion, in every tribe, nation, city and village

They toppled the thrones of their former lords and condemned even their seed to destruction

In their liberty they have forgotten to give thanks to him who made them, and live now in ignorance

To the faithful of that generation this task is given to you: to bring about the offices of hidden grace

Of the terror that conceals good things, that inspires renunciation of the lower law and vain custom

This is the true liberation, though it comes as a mystery that the many shall not understand

To the one who knows, restrain your open laughter and in the day conform yourself to foolish ways

But in the night work fastidiously towards the end that he has proscribed, even to the point of death

In that generation shall arise the means to do the work that would seem impossible to those before

Do not lose heart in the face of confusion and adversity, but rather ask him for patience and clarity

You shall place your hand to the waters and unleash a torrent that will subsume all

In a new era a wayward people shall come to know the offices in their generation

* * *

**Second Part** (Caveats)

But to accomplish this shall be a journey of many years, fraught with many perils

O faithful, be wary in your dealings with the sorceress, for she is a double-edged sword

Without her you shall proceed in vain, but she shall have the power to crush your head

Beware the fork tongued ones in your midst, whose falsehoods would lead only to ruin

There shall be a clever fool, an unworthy person who for a time you shall call your own

In their hands will be the power to bring failure to your work, unless they should be halted

The clever fool, of great talent, a silver dart that might smash you to pieces without warning

The sorceress shall pave the way for the clever fool; watch where her eyes pivot!


End file.
